Corner

I would have missed it if it weren't for the bushel of split, leaking tomatoes intended for sheep food.

I would have missed it even though the signs were everywhere.

Friday night. I took those free tomatoes, phoned a friend after 9, and together we started a double batch of spaghetti sauce. Blanching, skinning, seeding, pressing. Every bowl and pot I owned was full of something red. Steamy vapors coming from the range for hours on end made the upstairs hot so Greg cranked our air down to 73 and opened all the windows.  I slinked under the sheets well past midnight. Hot house, tired muscles, white dog with red hair (she likes to curl up directly under the juicing apparatus) asleep on the bed next to us.

Tired muscles generally make for sound sleeping but not during the storm of the century. The whole state heard it. Wicked thunder accompanied a multi-directional lightning show. Epic first boom nearly stopped my heart. The following booms sparked childhood memories of Missouri thunderstorms...deciduous trees shedding their flotsam and jetsam, green-hued air, the scent of wet mulch.

Saturday dawn. Wait, we had opened all the windows because of my inopportune saucing schedule. Our couch is still wet. Oh well. It was worth it to have the THUNDERWIND whip through the house and animate my inanimate objects.

Early morning. Farmer's market. Raspberries, peaches, Honeycrisp apples. Pink-eyed beans to save for a winter ham hock. Friendly chatter sponsored by those who have worked the land all year.

Noon. A drive to the Draper Temple. Up close and personal with scrub oaks who just lost their chlorophyll thanks to elevation and despite the sweat that remains in the valley.

Late afternoon. Me tending the sauce that reduced itself by half in a duet of garlic and onion, Greg and RE making white noise with the mower and vacuum, windows still open due to tomato heat. The zephyr blew in the kitchen window right under my nose and electrified me with its sneak peek. I smelled it. The smell I long for all year. The smell that is synchronized with canning and college football. The smell that promises of sweaters, pumpkin bread, and cider. The smell that propels me to fill my trunk with acorns. The smell that amplifies my domestic song and surges extra energy through my veins. Autumn is coming. Change is near.

And just like that, while contentedly preserving summer as part of an idyllic threesome, I sensed that our trio won't last forever. That this season will end. An increase of all I love is just around the corner.