"August, First " August 4, 2003 |
August 4, 2003
August, First
Greetings Friends of the Farm,
Before sunrise, Tubby J. Tupelo, the black farm cat, skinny from the heat, comes in for his morning treat: a cracked egg or a bit of milk. Then it's out to find a cool spot in which to recline, as the heat has already arrived, earlier than the helpers, and it doesn't slack off until way after they leave.
At times, during days like these, hot and sour, wilting and heavy, we yearn for Autumn. For that almost imperceptible change in the light, for that whisper of kindness in the coming air. It usually happens in the latter part of this month, at the calendar, but not actual, end of Summer. We are always surprised by it. "Do you feel it? The air is different this morning" we say to each other, hoping it is true and not merely a deranged symptom of dehydration. It gives us renewed energy just the same, as sometimes perception is even better than the reality that September will be just as hot.
The plants desire this magic moment too. As temperatures rise to one hundred degrees, they stand, trapped and immobile, in the field, under the punishing rays of a stern sun, their leafy arms gradually descending as their internal fluids go back to the roots, a measure of preservation. The moisture will wick back up through the stem and into the leaves as the cooler air of night brings some respite. Some of the older plants, squashes in particular, are simply tired and want only to become part of the soil again, from whence they, and we, came. Others, like the eggplants and peppers, want a reprieve from the heat to gain strength to make it to their final act in September and October.
We walk the eggplant rows. The chances of a Daesene Green eggplant, or the other varieties, enduring on the plant long enough to grow large are compromised. They now just as likely turn yellow or brown before they reach the size of abundance. Jana, in charge of their harvest, pulls the ones still delectable, as well as those which are past our desire. The latter she feeds back to the Earth. It is good to return some of the fruit as we mustn't relentlessly mine the land. We must replace what we take, or more, to build the soil, that it and its populations, might also survive and thrive. After all, it's this spot of land for the rest of our lives. There is no moving from worn-out farm to virgin soil for us. Those days passed with the wild opportunity of the frontier.
In fact, the original settlers of our farm, the Smith family, did just that. They left the exhausted soil of North Carolina and brought their resources, their hands, their mules and tools, to the fresh dirt of the Colorado River valley and purchased this (originally) fifty acres from the infant City of Austin, in 1839. In letters to relatives back home, John Franklin Smith extolled the virtues of the new dirt, cheap enough to crop one year and move to the adjacent land, which they also owned, the next year. In the Old South, they were out of room to run. And so are we, all of us.
With all the men at the other farm, smoking tomatoes, I spent the morning on the tractor, scooping up bucketsful of leaf mulch and dumping it next to the newest planting of cucumbers. Then with a rake I worked it around the baskets that will support the vining plants, and finally, uncovered the deluged baby plants. The mulch will keep the soil cooler, but still, with the horrible heat, the plants' leaves will be wilted by afternoon each day. As the heat breaks down the mulch (breaking down everything it seems) the humus will feed the tiny animals in the soil, and they in turn will feed the crops of Fall.
The pear trees, out front, the next fruit to come to our market tables, rise from a thick bed of mulch, laid down each of their nine years of life. Their fruits, glowing with the russet blush of Summer, hang swollen and indolent, from sagging branches. Even though I thinned the little fruit-lets early on, the trees look like dogs with way too many pups. From a few paces, the pears appear ready, and in truth some fall from the tree at the slightest movement of their branch. but close in for the touch and you find that their flesh is rock-hard. Hard even for a Texas crisp pear, which are wonderful, best suited to chilled, thin slices to eat in salads or with cheese, or cooked in tarts and pear butters. At the end of the month, when that first hint of Autumn caresses them and us, we will harvest these last sweet fruits of the year.
The fig trees, although well mulched, call for water as their leaves yellow and wither. Their figs, the second crop, small and green still, need a bit more time to fulfill our fantasies, but they will probably beat the pears to ripeness. The hens rest in the shade of the trees, and dig for life in the mulch.
Later in the evening, Tubby and I step out to the back porch, to watch the planes come in, to possibly see bats dart about, to listen to the night sounds. It's finally cooled enough to stand the sitting, and since there's been no rain in a long time, there are no mosquitoes to interrupt the little pleasures of the porch.
Punctuating the stillness, a hen makes snorking sounds in the Hen House. Every minute or so, she snorks. How can the others sleep? She'd be the snorer of the crowd, if this happened only at night, but actually she snorks around the farm during the daytime hours too. I guess she has a respiratory defect. Tubby and I go out with the flash light to "tuck them in," to lock their gates and determine that the favorites and the chicks are on the perch. It's obvious that the snorker is there. Many of the hens, including Aunt Penny, are standing up on the perches. Maybe they'll stand all night. Perhaps it's cooler that way.
Tubby comes into the pen and checks out all that he's missed by being a cat and not a chicken. He decides it's not much, and together, we retreat to the porch for a few minutes more. Autumn is not in the air yet, but at least the sun has retired, and finally, a few summer moments are tolerable.
Copyright 2003: Carol Ann Sayle