Summer house beckons in springtime

Awaiting the start of the season, we wander around the summer house, glimpsing the natural world around us. 

Signs of the Creator's handiwork are everywhere: in the brilliant yellow petals of daffodils, the drumming of a woodpecker's bill boring into a tree, and the contented munching of a pair of horses dining on nature's bounty. 

While we soon will awaken the summer house from its long winter's nap, we count the days until we fling open the windows, mow the lawn and roll the barbecue grill out of the shed.

Meanwhile, we sit on the picnic table and dream of sunny days, soft breezes and the soothing sounds of the sea...

A welcoming sight -- daffodils bloom along the
stone wall, while clay pots wait to be filled.

A male downy woodpecker clings to the trunk of our tree,
 while he digs a nest hole with his long pointed bill.

Our quintessential New England seaside town with
 its stone walls, farmland and sea beyond.

Horses graze in a pasture dotted with yellow wildflowers.

Melted snow and abundant spring rains created wetlands, where trees
 stand tall, partly submerged in the middle of a pond.

Summer is sweet

Fuchsia beach roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert.

Driving to the summer house, I have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road. Bright green vegetation has sprouted everywhere, and flowers in a spectrum of colors line the countryside and spill from cottage gardens.

“June in New England is like a lover’s dream made tangible. Color and scent and sound; the hills indeed sing,” wrote Gladys Taber in “The Book of Stillmeadow.” Dawn comes so fresh and cool, and dusk flows like a still river into the deep sea of night. Noons are tranquil gold. There is nothing stern or sober about our Northern countryside now; even the grey rock ledges are gently blurred with silvery green lichens, and in the great cracks time has chipped out, a thousand tiny plants get a precarious hold.”

Indeed, this is the kind of day that comes to mind in the heart of winter: a benevolent sun, brilliant blue skies, gentle winds and tranquil seas reflecting the Creator’s handiwork.

Fuchsia beach roses bloom in the sand, flowers in the desert.

The huge maple tree in our front yard is so heavy with new growth that walking beneath it is like entering a deep forest shrouded from sunlight and carpeted with thick spongy grass.

Inside the summer house we throw open all the windows, as the salty air comes streaming in.

Then we head out to the shed in search of garden tools to contribute to the abundance of nature around us. The pitchfork is missing a tine, but we begin overturning the earth in the tiny kitchen garden at the back of the shed. The fertile soil comes alive with pink earthworms disturbed from their hiding places. We rake, hoe and plant the tomatoes, while the purple chive blossoms wave in the wind.

Medieval anchoress Julian of Norwich wrote: “Be a gardener. / Dig a ditch, / toil and sweat, / and turn the earth upside down / and seek the deepness / and water the plants in time. / Continue this labor / and make sweet floods to run / and noble and abundant fruits to spring. / Take this food and drink / and carry it to God / as your true worship.”

We sit in the shade, read and chat while we listen to the music of birdsong and the distant sloughing of the surf. 

Summer is sweet.  

Summer musings

In 1969 my family bought a parcel of land by the seashore for $3,000, which forever changed the course of our days.

Our location changed.

We spent weekends in June, July and August there. Over the years we slept in a tent, camper van, recreational trailer and eventually, a house. As children, our backyard playground became a long stretch of rocky coastline. At night, we fell asleep fanned by cooling sea breezes and soothed by the hypnotic sound of breaking waves.

Our activities changed.

At dawn, we carried our aluminum boat to the water’s edge. Heading upriver, we anchored over a ledge and fished until we tired of baiting the hook and taking flounder, scup and the occasional sand shark off the line. At night we fished off the rocks in search of striped bass, but more likely hooked eels. Afternoons were spent swimming, fishing, clamming, crabbing, reading, hitting the volleyball over the net and biking.

Our diet changed.

The result of our labors, we feasted on fish, clams, quahogs, periwinkles and crabs. The charcoal hibachi, and later gas-fired grill, was always ready to sear steaks, ribs, chicken, hamburgers and especially the plentiful varieties of fish. On steamy, humid days, we ate lettuce with huge chunks of just-picked tomatoes and sweet bell peppers from our tiny garden behind the shed. They were garnished with a sprinkling of parsley that my grandfather had started from seed decades before. And no afternoon ever went by without our savoring a heaping sugar cone of ice cream.

Our health changed.

Breathing clean sea air and warmed by sunshine, we ate when we were hungry and had plenty of exercise. We had no set schedule, no appointments, no housework and no obligations.

Our relationships changed.

We knew all our relatives. Family and friends stopped by for a visit on Sunday afternoons, and we caught up on each other’s lives. Permanently on vacation, we greeted our neighbors when we walked by their cottages, sat side-by-side on brightly colored towels at the beach or chatted on our hands and knees while digging for clams.

Our perspective changed.

Spending endless summer days sitting on a boulder and gazing out to sea, your faculties become sharper. You notice the tides, the wind direction, the intense fuchsia of sea roses, the rhythm of swaying sea grasses, the skies in shades of blues and grays, the puffiness of cumulus clouds, the fast-moving shapes of storm clouds, the dance of sandpipers, the flight of seagulls, and the miracle of pulsing waters in the estuary changing direction in front of your very eyes.

You see God’s handiwork everywhere, and you feel loved.

 

If I could talk to the animals

Atop my pigeonhole desk is a 15-inch wooden statue of St. Francis of Assisi with a bird perched on each shoulder and a dog nestled against his leg. His hand is open, outstretched.

Another stone garden statue of the saint sits in my kitchen garden.

One of the most venerated religious figures in history, St. Francis was an Italian friar and preacher who founded the Franciscan order.

The saint believed that nature itself was the mirror of God, and there are many stories about his great love for animals.

According to the “Fioretti” (Little Flowers), one day while Francis was travelling with companions, he told them to “wait for me while I go preach to my sisters the birds.” Surrounding him, the birds were intrigued by the power of his voice.

He also made the sign of the cross over a wolf that was terrorizing the city of Gubbio.

“Brother wolf, I would like to make peace between you and the people,” said the saint.

The wolf laid down at his feet.

Inspired by the example of the saint, I have learned to speak to wild animals.

A chipmunk took up residence under our deck, which is prime real estate located next to the raised bed filled with ripe strawberries.

Bold as brass, the tiny animal munched on the fruit time after time, as he dared me to come closer and chase him away.

We bought netting and draped it over the plot, and I approached the little creature sitting safely in the gutter pipe. Standing a couple of feet away, I was amazed how cute he was.

“Brother chipmunk,” I said in my softest, sweetest voice, “I am sorry, but the kitchen patch is off limits. You are welcome to the wild bird seed that falls from the feeder and to the bounty in the woods, but no more strawberries.”

Seemingly rooted to the spot, he looked and listened attentively, as if he understood every word. We stared at each other for a while longer; then he scampered away. But I remained there in awe that I had communicated with a rodent.

Drizzling water around the edges of the hanging pot of geraniums, I was careful not to disturb the house wren that had built her nest in the plant. But one day I peered into a hole and saw a baby bird nestled in the straw.

“Sister wren,” I said looking straight into the beady eyes of the newborn, “Welcome to our world!”

Over the next couple of weeks, I spoke to her. Mere inches apart, she never rustled a feather, as if our conversations were expected and enjoyed.

She started to test her wings, flying to the rhododendron bushes nearby and sometimes perched on the stair railing.

Then I heard her singing, “chuurr … chuurr … chuurr” on the roof of the deck and farther away in the pine trees.

This past week, she moved out. Every time I pass by, I stare longingly at the nest, missing her tiny beak … trusting eyes … the sound of her voice … our frequent talks. I think I have empty nest syndrome.   

Say it with flowers

“Flowers have an expression of countenance as much as men or animals,” wrote Henry Ward Beecher in “Star Papers: A Discourse of Flowers.” “Some seem to smile; some have a sad expression; some are pensive and diffident; others again are plain, honest, and upright.”

I think our rhododendrons are laughing. In brilliant hues of hot pinks and purples, they even light up the front yard at dawn and twilight.

Nature is wearing her happy face these days. There is greenery cropping up everywhere, and if the natural vegetation is not enough, we add our own garden brand variety.

This week my husband’s friend dumped a truckload of topsoil near the raised bed, which is filled with strawberry plants, chives and parsley. Another raised bed will be constructed to house a season’s worth of tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, eggplant, beans, peas and herbs.

I draw the kitchen garden in my journal, moving the vegetables around like furniture in a room; and I envision the plants heavy laden in August, the air perfumed by the scent of basil and thyme. 

“I used to visit and revisit (my garden) a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of creation,” wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne in “Mosses from an Old Manse.” “It was one of the most bewitching signs in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green.”

A perfect balance of sun and rain this spring is responsible for the incredible growth spurt of the lawn. Verdant and as thick as a carpet, it seems to change overnight into a meadow of weeds if it is not consistently trimmed.

So my husband cuts our grass yet again, and then cuts our neighbor’s whose mower is in need of repair.

Last week, we loaded the old mower onto our trailer and headed to the summer house. Forty-five minutes later, my husband turned the key to back the mower onto the grass, and it would not start. For an hour he toiled over the engine, giving the battery a boost, cleaning the sparkplug and checking wires but to no avail.

Dejected, we went home with the foot-long grasses and wildflowers waving in the wind.

Later that afternoon, we drove to my parents’ house and hoisted their new lawnmower onto the trailer.

The next day my husband headed back to the summer house, but when he arrived, the lawn had already been cut. A neighbor had seen the drama enfold the day before, and when we left, he mowed our lawn.

Surprised, my husband surveyed our neighbor’s handiwork, and the blades of grass chuckled.

Gardening is a labor of love

A rare 80-degree day in mid-April in New England, my husband searches for the blue wheelbarrow in the barn and ambles over to our kitchen garden. He begins to clear away the remains of last year’s crop in the raised eight-by-eight bed and uncovers bright green shoots of chives and thriving strawberry plants inching to cover lost ground.

He wants to add another raised bed this year, more space for tomatoes. Last year I canned about 20 bottles, and I can imagine even more Mason jars filled with huge tomato chunks swimming in juice lining up on the basement pantry shelves.

My husband hoes, while I find my planner, a spiral-bound journal where I record every detail of my gardening experiment.

I smile when I read: “Purchases – 16  tomato plants (Goliath) and 4 dill for $11; Burpee Dark Seeded Early Perfection Pea, $1.79; and Burpee Bush Blue Lake 274 Garden Bean for $1.59; May 1 – Planted 2 rows of beans near fence, east to west for maximum sun.”

I learned from the best.

In 1845, Henry David Thoreau built a cabin at Walden Pond in Concord, Mass., where he lived for two years, two months and two days. There he worked his small plot of land and recorded his observations of the natural world.

“It was a singular experience that long acquaintance which I cultivated with beans, what with planting, and hoeing, and harvesting, and threshing, and picking over and selling them – the last was the hardest of all – I might add eating, for I did taste. I was determined to know beans.”

I chuckle when I read his expense list: “For a hoe, 54 cents; plowing, harrowing, and furrowing, $7.50 (too much); beans for seed, 12 cents; potatoes, $1.33; peas, 40 cents; turnip seed, 6 cents; white line for crow fence, 2 cents; horse cultivator and boy three hours, $1.00; horse and cart to get crop, 75 cents; in all, $14.72.”

His investment and labor would yield 9 bushes and 12 quarts of beans sold for $16.94; five bushes of large potatoes for $2.50; 9 bushels of small potatoes for $2.25; grass for $1.00; stalks for 75 cents; in all, $23.44, leaving a “pecuniary profit” of $8. 71.

At our Fogland summer house in Tiverton, R.I., we are surrounded by gardens.

My mother plants a tiny garden behind the shed that in some years yields more produce than my kitchen garden. The fertile soil and moist sea breeze combine to provide the perfect environment to grow tomatoes, green peppers, cucumbers and herbs.

Our yard also backs up to farmland that in some years sprouts potatoes and pumpkins or just lies fallow.

Every neighboring cottage contains a flower or vegetable plot.

Gardening is a labor of love in these parts, according to the master.

“Meanwhile my beans, the length of whose rows, added together, was seven miles already planted, were impatient to be hoed, for the earliest has grown considerable before the latest were in the ground; indeed they were not easily to be put off,” wrote Thoreau. “What was the meaning of this so steady and self-respecting, this small Herculean labor, I knew not. I came to love my rows, my beans, though so many more than I wanted.”    



Gardens stretch to the sea near our summer place in Tiverton, R.I.