sproutgrrl
silly
She’s always meant summer to me.
Summer on the farm. Weeding grammy’s garden and gathering new-picked vegetables and fruits for the table. The scent of fresh-turned soil and new-mown grass. Sitting on the porch watching storm clouds build and cut loose, lighting up the sky. The heat and smell radiating from the kitchen when grammy would devote the day to canning the summer harvest goods. The cool, dark storm cellar that smelled of spiders, where she stored the freshly canned goods. Grammy smiling. That was summer.
Every year, late in the fall or early winter, a postman would ring the doorbell and deposit a box filled with Mason jars. Each jar would open with an audible pop, and the smell of summer would fill the room. Pickles, sweet and dill, welcome as willow shade on a hot day. Limas and snap beans, crisp as the crack of summer lightning. Jam made of apricots or blackberries, sweet as grammy’s smile.
She’s too old for canning now, and there’s no summer in these store-bought vegetables, and all we’re left with is her smile, which is still as sweet as ever.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, greg fallis and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
