Cherry Tomatoes are the New Zucchini and Other End-of-Summer Thoughts

And here we are coming down the home stretch of another summer. The garden continues to provide far more cherry tomatoes than either one of us could eat, especially considering that only one person in the house likes them in their raw state. I planted three innocent little seedlings and they have become a jungle spewing forth hundreds of red, yellow, and lovely rosy-orange tomatoes. The zucchini were rather polite this year, offering a moderate bounty that did not require dropping bags of them on anyone’s doorstep in the middle of the night. But the cherry tomatoes are simply out of control.

On both the front and back porches, mandevilla and hibiscus from previous summers are blooming as though they were just purchased from a nursery. We put some kind of magic internet-recommended pellets into the pots, and the flowers are glorious, attracting hummingbirds and bees. Every year, my husband brings the plants in and nurtures them over the winter. Sometimes they end up in a spare bedroom that gets a lot of light, or they wait, straggly and unkempt, in our sunroom. I would relegate their withered skeletons to the compost pile at the end of each season, but he believes in their dormant beauty and refuses to give up on them.

It's been ten years since I experienced that Sunday night feeling of another school year looming ahead. I used to dread the first in-service day where everyone walked around looking mildly shell-shocked to be back here already, nibbling donuts, and asking people they’d never speak to otherwise about their summer. The floors gleamed, inspirational posters hadn’t yet been defaced, and the ever-present smell of adolescent sweat and overbaked chicken patties was miraculously vanquished for at least the first few days.  Starry-eyed new teachers were introduced, and administrators droned on about the latest and greatest new initiatives knowing full well it was all going to crap by the end of September. I miss some of the people--a lot--and I miss getting kids pumped up about good music, but the rest of it, especially now, not so much.

Retirement offers the sublime gift of puttering. Each morning I inspect the garden, harvest yet another bag of tomatoes, and check the progress of the lettuces and broccoli I planted for fall. I fill the hummingbird feeders more frequently because I know they’re tanking up for the long journey south, and I swear the female gives me the stink-eye if the nectar is more than a day or two old. I make yet another batch of pesto from the basil which is teetering on the edge of bolting. The dogs roll in the grass and chase rabbits and squirrels with unmitigated joy.

I crave the comfort of watching nature doing what it’s supposed to at this time of year because nothing in the larger world seems capable of that. Climate, politics, education (talk to a veteran teacher these days), how we treat each other—it’s unlike anything I have ever experienced, and I’ve been around for a while. So I go to church and sing in choirs and gather with friends. I read good books and listen to smart people who help me understand how and why we’ve created so much chaos for ourselves. I pray every day for those I know who are facing terrible health challenges with grace, courage, and strength. And I look at spectacular flowers blooming on plants that were once ugly sticks and feel just a tiny bit of hope.