On the Far Side of Summer

We are in the last few weeks of summer and I am conscious of the changes. Our weather has (most blessedly) started cooling. Yes, we have had a lot of rain, but our community did not get the brutal rains, tornadoes, and flooding that Indiana, parts of Ohio (including Columbus 25 miles south of us), and Kentucky did.

The days are getting shorter. I don't notice the change from day to day, but I can tell it week by week. As I pen this out Tuesday night, it is already dark at 8:40 p.m. and probably was dark earlier than that. I just did not notice. 

No surprise given the time of year, there has been a lot going on on the garden. Tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes. In an experiment for the winter, I slow-roasted trays of tomato slices (brushed with olive oil, sprinkled with herbs and kosher salt), packing them in containers to freeze. My hope is to be able to pull them out this winter, thaw them slightly, and put them on a homemade pizza.

There are lots and lots of peppers to do...something with.

Last week Warren and I did a second basil cutting. We had done one back in mid-July that I turned into pesto: some for our freezer, some for friends. Some five weeks after the first, let's just say there was a lot of basil. I grow several types (and pay no attention to what types I plant) so the cut collection was wildly varied in size of leaves, texture of leaves, and color of leaves. Several has large curly leaves, like a garden fairy had gotten to them with a crimping iron. I made more pesto with about half of it on Sunday. On Tuesday, I washed and de-stemmed and dried the rest of it, then very slow-baked the individual leaves for a fresh jar of dried basil for cooking.

Crumbling the dried leaves was an olfactory gift.

As for the pesto, I had in mind where it would head. The next door neighbors on the south had been away on an extended trip and were coming home Monday night. They both love my pesto. I was cat-sitting for them while they were away, so on the last evening of my cat duties, I slipped a small container of fresh pesto in their fridge to welcome them back.

A larger container went to our next door neighbors on the north side, Adam and Maura and their girls, Alice and Margaux. Our two households share lots back and forth—baked goods, vegetables, pesto, fruit, books, laughter, and more. Alice and Margaux, Alice just shy of 11 and Margaux 7, are already skilled bakers and had brought over on Saturday some to-die-for homemade cinnamon rolls. Later on Sunday Margaux and Maura delivered some sweet corn as both homes look for farm stands with it this time of year. 

When I carried the container of pesto next door, Margaux, playing outside with another neighbor, jumped up. "Is that the pesto?!" She is a huge pesto fan.

Yep, that's the pesto. I hope she shared.

There was something else I did with the pesto this Sunday—something long overdue. I shared two small containers with our neighbors who live directly across the street from us. We are all on a smiling and waving basis (and remember, I have lived in this house now for almost 18 years) but seeing Joan out that morning made me walk across and ask if they would like some pesto.

Joan had heard of pesto, but had not had it before. We talked about it, and Ed, her husband, joined us. (Warren was busy loading steel, so he was not in on the conversation.) We talked about their house, the torrential rains several days ago and the water damage, about cooking (Ed is the head cook of the two), about this and that. They told me what they were cooking that night; it sounded like a perfect match with the pesto. Then Joan said "I'd love to share what we're making with you and Warren. Would that be okay?"

Oh yes.

So mid-afternoon I walked the pesto over to their house. In the early evening, Joan knocked on our door with two servings of their main dish: roasted chicken breast/tomato/spinach/onion. We had already husked some of the sweet corn that had arrived earlier in the afternoon. The sweet corn delivery had also included two freshly baked blueberry muffins (I'm telling you: the girls bake a lot!), so we had quite a feast, finishing the dessert muffins on our front porch. Ed and Joan were arriving home from walking their dog, and we all four waved and called out appreciation for the shared food.

As we savored the muffins, I started laughing.

"This meal was entirely free. How's that for being frugal?"

The meal was wonderful.The sense of community, of connecting with others, was the special sauce, the deluxe icing, that made it even better.

A Mid-August Garden Report

Let's face it: I have not been a good gardener this year.

At all.

I have occasionally weeded the garden. Very occasionally. During the heat dome and the heat waves (hot but not a heat dome), I kinda sorta kept it watered. In fact, my dear husband has been more attentive to watering and weeding it than I have this year. (And his pet project is deadheading the marigolds that march around the border, so Warren gets credit for that too.)

But, as I have noted more than once over the years, plants tend to know what to do, regardless of my actions. 

There are tomatoes:

And peppers:

There have been so many peppers so far that, as I did last summer and the summer before, I made pepper-onion relish; hot packed so we can enjoy it through the winter. There was one casualty during the hot bath (I couldn't figure out why there was suddenly bits of chopped onions and peppers in the bath: had a lid come off? Nope!):

but everything else came through with flying colors:

The beautiful cabbage head that leads off this post? Coleslaw for supper tonight. (And for several more days to come, of course.) Not unlike last summer and fall, when I found great satisfaction and focus in performing little things, concentrating on making the slaw today was most satisfying. 

There are more (many, many more) tomatoes to come, and still quite a few peppers as well. The basil is about ready for a second picking; I may make more pesto or I may dry the leave for cooking herbs or both. After that, I will let the basil go to flower so the bees can enjoy the fragrant bed. Besides, given my trying to get my internal rhythms reset, I could totally use some bee therapy.

Some bee therapy? Who am I kidding? I could use a lot (A. Lot.) of bee therapy. It is interesting just now, as I looked back to catch the link to last year's post, that last October I was—guess what?—dealing with some of the very same issues that I am struggling with now. I'll just leave that on the table for now. 

I am grateful that the garden decided to do what it does best: grow. And produce food for our table (and other tables too) and food for my soul. If that's not a win, I don't know what is. 

On A Quest

My next door neighbor Mary texted me that per a Yale study (done over a decade ago, I might note), regular readers live an average of 23 months longer than their cohorts. I replied: "So given that I typically read 200+ books a year, I'm in good shape, right?" 

I just finished The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. It is not for the light of heart. It is a dense, well-crafted novel with the Columbine school massacre being a core event in the life of the narrator. Just saying. But from it, I plucked this quote:

At the door, Dr. Patel wished me good luck with my students. "It's a curious things about quests, isn't it, Mr. Quirk?" she said. "The seeker embarks on a journey to find what he wants and discovers, along the way, what he needs."

That quote about the the concept of a quest has stayed with me. It brings to mind much earlier reflections on pilgrimages. And it stirred me to pen this out (pen and paper!) last night.

Per Blogger, this is my 1001st post. (Dang.) I last wrote in July, particularly about my father's hospitalization and how I felt I was in a box. In truth, I am still struggling to get a rhythm back into my daily life. My sleep is erratic. My focus is erratic. My handling of tasks—what to do when in what order—is erratic. I get frustrated internally far too easily far too often. 

 You get the idea. 

So that is my quest: getting my daily rhythm adjusted to my needs. 

There are some pieces I have put in place, some of them predating July. While my walking continues to be impaired (and will be permanently), I try (and usually succeed) to walk daily. I have stopped measuring how far I walk but am still noting how long I walk.

So that is one: walking almost daily.

A few months ago, thanks to my friend Tani, I have added a tai chi practice to my daily routine. I follow Don Fiore on YouTube. While I started with a longer clip of his, some 16+ minutes, I have been using a much shorter clip (8 minutes) since the hospitalization episode. I have committed the shorter one to memory, and even in a crowded day, can find a place to tuck it in. 

So that is two: tai chi daily.

I listen to "Jupiter" (from The Planets by Gustav Holst) daily. I am particular; I only listen to a 2014 performance by the NDR Radiophilharmonie under the baton of Andrew Manze. I not only listen but also watch and confess I have watched it so many times that I can follow Manze's cues. But the point is I listen to it not just as background music but for the focus. I don't even read for those 8 minutes.

So that is three: "Jupiter" daily.

 A few weeks ago, I started lifting weights DAILY. We're not talking gym membership and hoisting barbells, folks. We have some 3 pound dumbbells that I do a set of reps with. I just added some reps with the 5 pound weights. (We have a pair of 10-pounders, but trust me, they are not even on my horizon yet.) It is a totally different focus from walking and tai chi.

So that is four: weights daily. 

And within the last few days, totally unexpectedly, I have added a daily dose of meditative talk by Thich Nhat Hanh, a renown Buddhist monk and peace activist. Hanh died in 2022. I had read some of his books before his death, so when his name popped up in my YouTube feed, I clicked on it.

And was immediately drawn in.

The episodes, put out by the Plum Village Monastery (which Hanh helped cofound in the 1980s), are small, only 5 to 6 minutes each. Each is just one small teaching, one little gem of thought. I have only seen three, but that is already enough for me to understand Hanh's Vietnamese-accented English better.

So that is five: daily Buddhist moments.

Anne Lamott, who writes often about issues of belief and faith, talked about a friend who considered themselves "Jew-ish," as in not fully immersed in the religion but believing in elements of it. I think she also talked about Jew-ish friends who also were drawn to Buddhism in the same way; she may have called them (or they called themselves) "Bu-Jews." I can see that combination working for me: continuing to follow the Jewish imperative to mend the broken world and finding solace and focus in the Buddhist teachings.

There has been a lot (A. Lot.) of things going on in my sphere—watching out for my aging father and his needs (and while he is doing great for 93, the decline is more obvious); keeping his sister, my beloved Aunt Gail, informed; boosting (along with others) a very close friend who has hit a hard brick wall not of her own making; herding the Justice Bus volunteers; Warren's extremely busy schedule between his booming business and his college teaching starting up in a few more weeks. To name a few. I miss my children and their families. I am not keeping up on the household, on the garden, on...let's face it. On much of anything. 

But tai chi, walking, weights, "Jupiter," and Thich Nhat Hanh: those are a start. Those may be the things I need to find on this quest for myself. 

A Success of a Failure

I have been involved in our local free legal clinics for most of the almost 23 years they have been in existence. I have been an attorney, an intake clerk, a cook, a baker, and an attorney herder—in short, a little bit of everything over the years. From a small, once-a-month evening clinic, we have expanded in multiple directions, including my favorite project, our partnership with the Ohio Justice Bus program, focusing in our community on family law.

As the needs grow and our attorney population ebbs and flows, several of us are always looking for ways to thank the volunteers we have and recruit new ones. What better way than to hold an informal reception at Andrews House, an important community center under whose umbrella the clinics have been since their long ago start?

We were not unlike the anecdotal Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland line: "Hey, kids, let's put on a show!"

The invitation above went out to the bar in numerous channels. It went to members of our local bar association in several emails, to past and present volunteers, and, in some cases, I personally followed up with an email or personal conversation: please come to the reception.

I offered to buy food trays for the reception. That would be my personal contribution. I also made plans to come early to help set up and stay late to help clean up. So Wednesday morning I headed out to the store.

How much to buy? Who knew? We hoped we'd have 30 or more attorneys show up. So I, ummm, bought a lot. A. Lot. Veggie trays, fruit trays, meat/cheese trays. Cookies. Oh, some salsa and corn chips too. I guessed at how much we might need if we got a "good" turnout.

Warren winced when I told him how much I had spent. He said he wished I had taken him with me, as he thought he could help me keep the quantities in more realistic measure and that would have saved some of the expense too.

I agreed to a point. Then I said, "Yes, it was a lot. But I look at it this way. I don't shop for clothes. Or home decor. I rarely buy books, using the library instead. I don't buy jewelry or take trips or go to the movies or eat out. So I'm very happy to spend money for this reception so Andrews House doesn't have to." 

When I got to Andrews House later that afternoon, Mel (Melinda) and Shelly had already set out tablecloths and plates and such in the dining room. I'd brought the food trays earlier that day, and now we pulled them out of the fridge (Andrews House has a commercial kitchen, so a huge fridge) and decided what to set out. 

How about this one? Can you open this? Here's a small bowl for salsa and a large one for chips. Cookies can go on this platter.

In short order, we were ready. We were excited. We were hoping we'd soon be welcoming colleagues and volunteers. And...

Well, let's just say that there was not a mad rush to get to our reception. Or any rush at all. Not counting me, Mel, or Shelly, we had 12 total. 12. No new volunteer possibilities. Only two of our regular attorney volunteers (okay, three if you count me) came.

But there was lots of food. Don't forget the food.

But you know what? The reception was a smash. Yes, we got very few of our regulars and, obviously, no new volunteers. But there was great talk and laughter and stories and snacking. (Remember, there was a lot of food. A. Lot.) 

New connections were made. One of our regulars gave his card to a summer intern and urged her to call his office and connect with his young associate to talk about probate work. She was thrilled. A connection that meant a lot to me was connecting Sophia, the director of the Ohio Justice Bus program, who stopped in on her way back to Columbus after a long Bus event in a county further north, to our local Domestic Relations judge and his court administrator to talk about the Justice Bus and our DR Court's innovative programs. (I was especially delighted about that one because I had purposely invited that judge and administrator to the reception.)

As the reception wound down, Warren showed up to help with clean up. Some of the food stayed behind and some went home with Mel to share with her husband that night. The rest of it came home with me as we have my brother and sister-in-law here for a few days (to see Dad). As we loaded the last of the food in our car, Mel and I gave each other a huge hug and laughingly agreed that it was not the turnout we'd hoped for but it'd been a lot of fun.

And that's a success in my book any day.

Opening the Box

The globe thistle is blooming. The bees and I are glad.

So let me share the ending first: my father is back in his apartment at Assisted Living and is doing 1000% better than when I wrote the following notes. And I am doing 100000000% better.

So what follows (between asterisks) was penned out Monday morning, while I sat in a room at our local hospital with my father, who slept a lot of the time I was there. He had been squadded there from his apartment midday, then admitted, and I had spent considerable hours Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and then Monday while they treated him. 

In short, a lot of time. A. Lot. 

It took a toll on me. I do not have the bandwidth physically, mentally, or emotionally to see me through a long hospital siege. I carried a lot of stress, a lot of weight, and a lot of everything else, and I knew it. 

So this is what I wrote Monday morning, sitting there in the too cold room (too cold even with a sweater on; I kept checking on my dad to make sure he had enough blankets on):

************

I have spent the last several mornings at our local hospital—not for me, thankfully, but for my elderly father. It is exhausting. 

This morning when I arrived someone had put on an "easy listening" channel on the room television. Without his hearing aids (safely back in his apartment, at his insistence), he could not hear it, but he said he liked glancing up and seeing the scenery—brilliant colors photos from around the world (with identifying tags as to where it was) and shots of flowers and rivers—scroll by. He would watch a bit, then doze off, then watch some more, then doze off.

I did not bring a book with me today—the one day he is sleeping much of the morning, of course—so I too am seeing the slide show. So besides admiring the photograph and recognizing some of the American landscapes, I am feeling sadness. There are too many places I will never see again or, in some cases, never see period. For that matter, I accept that I am never going to make it back to Maine at this point, so forget Japan. 

I am feeling compressed into a box by age, disabilities, duties, responsibilities, time. (Note I did not say money.) It's not like I expected to feel "young" (whatever that means) ever again, but a little more vibrant would be good. 

And this too shall pass., I know. The current weight will lift when my father is discharged and I am not spending a chunk of every day at the hospital and having to rearrange the rest of my day (not to mention Warren's day, as we are a 1-car family) around the hospital.

************

So here I am some 30 hours after writing that, almost 24 hours since they discharged Dad, and the world looks immensely better. I visited Dad this morning in his apartment and he was thrilled to be back home in control of his own day, smiling with delight, talking and laughing with staff members who stopped in to welcome him back. I'm sure he had cheers when he went up to lunch today with his friends. All good. As for me, I walked home with a far lighter step than I have had since Friday at noon when I got the call from the AL facility.  

I even gave myself space to go out and take a few pictures. It doesn't get much than that! 

Globe thistle in a front garden 

Another Garden Update

The first one: not great.

It is hot. We are entering (maybe in already?) another heat dome—not as vicious as the one at the end of June (at least not yet) but still nothing to mess with. And, of course, I hate heat. 

BUT to keep my mind off the heat, here is a garden update!

The first cherry tomato, at the top of this post, was an ehhhh. Ripe but not ripe, A little hard. A little lacking. But a few days later the first Early Girl came in (which I ate promptly) and now I have THREE of them waiting to be enjoyed! (And remember, I am the only person in this household who eats fresh tomatoes.)

Yum! 

On the other side of the garden, the basil, after its weedy start, was ready to pick. So yesterday morning, while it was still cool, I got out there with shears and cut most of it, filling a huge pan. I stuffed it into a garbage bag, put it in the refrigerator, and this morning I turned my attention to making the first pesto of 2026.

Just waiting for me to dive in

This photo shows my work area before the pesto making commenced. Nice, neat, clean. The hammer? That's to smash (okay, hit firmly) garlic so I can get the skin off and throw it into the food processor. No wasting time with a garlic press for me! 

Ready to go!

I did not take a photo of my work area after I finished the pesto, but trust me, it was not nice, it was not neat.

But there IS pesto!

As I told Warren and then shared with my friend David, it was harder making the pesto this year. Age does take its toll, and my "real" age is more than the 70 years shown on my birth certificate. But I made it to the other side. Tonight I will put the pesto into containers, carry some to our neighbors on both sides, and then sit down and smile.

And maybe, just maybe, enjoy one of those tomatoes! 

Pesto! 

An Early July Garden Update

The tiger lilies are just starting to bloom

Well, let's just say the news is mixed. Not bad, mind you, just mixed.

Like many of the midwestern and eastern states, we had a massive heat dome last week. High temperatures here (in the mid to upper 90s) and higher heat index numbers—102, 105—those kind of numbers. For the garden, that meant watering it at, oh, 6:00 a.m. or so before the heat got too intense to be outside. 

Despite that battering, the garden came through. My biggest surprise is that the lettuce bed did not throw its hands up and surrender. That day is coming, but for now this household and our neighbors are still eating fresh lettuce.

From an earlier picking

We've had a few peppers already too.

The first tomato is almost ready to pick. (The rest are lagging behind.)

And the zinnias are starting to open up too. 

Trust me, there are more. 

The biggest obstacle with the garden this year? Yours truly. While never a strong weeder, this year I am downright pathetic. The basil has suffered the most from the neglect, although I did get enough weeded out that the basil pushed up and over the weeds. They have done well enough that I can probably make the first batch of pesto.

And an update on that earlier update: the basil seeds that I bought and sowed? Warren did not know I had sowed a small bed, saw pigweed coming up in that area, and hacked the "new" basil bed up to get rid of the weeds. Those seeds never had a chance. 

I almost hesitate to write this, but might as well throw it out here: gardening this year from my viewpoint has been difficult. Not just the weeding: everything. I have even had the heretical thought that next year, we have even a smaller garden. Fewer tomatoes (this year there were 5), fewer peppers (this year there were 14). I know, I know. It is only July. And some (many?) of the physical challenges I am dealing with this spring/summer may improve or even resolve.

Time will tell, both for me and for this year's garden. Here's to more tomatoes!