It is August in California, the "dog days of summer," very different here in Sonoma from those of my Midwestern childhood. Instead of window-rattling thunderstorms and the threat of tornadoes, cities around me are battling early and devastating wildfires, with a similar magnitude that Sonoma and Napa counties faced last October. The new normal, these colossal floods, droughts, hurricanes, and wildfires are called, but how can we help but see these events as a message from our beleaguered planet?
To try and counter the upset and sorrow these global changes make me feel, I have tried to create a haven in my own backyard over the past two decades, and summer is certainly the most sensual time of year to appreciate that. When I reach across a tomato plant to pick some Juliets or Sungolds, the tiny hairs on each vine brush my arm and send up a scent that is instant-Summer. The lavender, humming with bees and the pots of Basil too give off a perfume that will always remind me of the heat of the season. A blue hammock sways mysteriously, even when there is no wind, as if visited by a relaxing ghost. I juice limes and fill the ice cube tray with their juice. Limeade.
I feed the birds and, more importantly, have many basins of water that are hubs of activity. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to watch the cycles of their lives, from courtship to mating to nesting to the mussy fledglings learning how to eat and fly. This year, I have seen many baby Towhees and Finches and Nuthatches and Bushtits and Swallows and even two juvenile Hummingbirds and an Oriel survive those precarious early weeks out of the nest, now confident and exploring freely. I fill the birdbaths and the bees hover around me, waiting.
Then too, there are the occasional surprises A mother skunk and two babies took up residence under a storage shed. The dogs have been skunked in the past and it is a pernicious smell that resists all the ways that are said to eradicate it, and takes months and months to disappear. So I am hopeful these new residents will mosey. They do not like light or noise, so each night, the dogs safely inside, I shine a flashlight at them looking for grubs wherever the soil is watered. At first they scurried away, but now they look up at me, perhaps recognizing a softie when they see one, and continue eating. I am about to try a radio under the shed or motion sensitive lights, never ever poison. Not for the rats that live in the woodpile and eat the fallen birdseed. This is where the skunks could be helpful as they eat small rodents. Clearly, not all the smells are delightful. Case in point: a mole died somehow and when I discovered it, I placed it in the greens bin, not knowing that the following two days it would be one hundred degrees. Today, a vulture appeared near the bin on the fence posts if summoned. The bird was drawn to the carrion scent from miles away, a remarkable sense of smell.
My place is small enough that I can know every tree and vine and flower and bird and critter intimately.There is the fig tree that bears fruit lightly in July and heavily in October. The Pomegranate whose fruits are labor-intensive to juice but beautiful as decoration, or food for the birds when they fall the to ground and split open, revealing their glossy jewels. Volunteer Sunflowers from the bird seed that does not make it into a beak and happens to fall near a drip line. Honeysuckle and Trumpetvine that threaten to pull down fences in their will to climb. Some of the summer harvests are small but revered: the Padron Peppers that I sauté with slices of garlic and sea salta and olive oil, mostly mild but every once in a while, a zinger. A rose called Fragrant Cloud that fills the whole room with deliciousness. Soon, it will grow cool and the flowers will go to seed and I will not be able to see the things in front of me at nine o'clock at night as the day cools and every living thing gets a second wind. But for now, I have the bounty of Summer for a little while longer.
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