Slightly More Happens - August Abundance

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“Welcome to a special, longer episode of bedtime stories for everyone, in which slightly”

more happens. You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nikolai. I write and read all the stories you hear. Nothing much happens. Audio engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We give to a different charity each week, and this week we are giving to T.B. Alliance. T.B. Alliance is dedicated to the discovery, development, and delivery of better, faster acting and affordable tuberculosis drugs that are available to those who need them. Learn more about them in our show notes.

Here is your monthly dose of extra nothing much, in which we give you a three story episode on the free feed, and a five story episode on the premium feed. In fact, over on premium, we regularly

publish episodes that are over nine hours long, and we're always adding more. So if that sounds

like something you're interested in, you can join for just 10 cents a day, and you'll be absolutely swimming in bonus content. Learn more at nothingmuch happens.com. Just as with our regular episodes, these stories are simply a soft place to rest your mind,

“to keep it steady, and allow you to drift asleep. All you need to do is listen.”

I'll tell the stories twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake later in the night, don't hesitate to start them over again. Our stories tonight treat us to some of the loveliest moments of late summer. They're about overflowing gardens, and farmers market stalls, heavy rains, and nights around the bonfire. They're also about blankets stretched out on the grass, flowering plants,

old, stately trees, and the sweet moments that come before the fall. I think most of us have gotten pretty good at spotting green washing. A package has leaves on it, or uses words like clean, or earth friendly. But when you look a little closer, those claims don't

“always hold up, and that's why I appreciate brands that can actually back up what they say.”

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at naturesunchine.com. So please get comfortable and let your whole body relax into your bed. I'll be here reading long after you fall on a sleep, keeping watch over you with my voice. Take a deep breath in through your nose. Let it out your mouth. Nice, one more, breathe in, and out. Good. Summer harvest. We've gotten here early today to take advantage of the cool morning air.

The sun was just coming over the trees, and the dew was still thick in the grass.

We'd had a few missteps along the way. Those potatoes had been tricky as predicted.

“But we'd managed to get a small crop of new potatoes and left some in the ground to grow bigger”

for the fall. I'd been too timid to cut the broccoli, unsure if it was ready, and came one day to find that the beautiful green foreheads had bloomed, and to even more beautiful yellow flowers. Or well, we were learning. Today we were here to harvest.

There would still be much more to come, but the plot was producing so quickly that we had to come up

for a plan for all that we grown. We'd brought giant wicker baskets to fill with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I had a laundry basket lined with an old blanket for the cabbages and cucumbers and zucchini.

“The runner beans and green beans are mostly finished by now, but we'd left a row of the runners”

to dry on the vine for winter soups. Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all their leaves had dried and turned brown. When I walked past them, I thought to myself that they would be ready about when the potatoes were. I liked thinking in these terms, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday, instead of one-thirty or six o'clock, I timed things by when the potatoes would be harvested, and the beans would be cut down and sheld.

We started in the tomato plants. The tangy smell of the vines rubbing off on our hands as we carefully

“picked the fruit. We had Romans for sauce, huge, lopsided heirloom tomatoes for slicing and salads.”

Giant beef steaks that would go in canning jars today, and about a million tiny crispy cherry

and grape tomatoes that burst with an acidic snap in your mouth. We took a few that were yet unripe for fried green tomato sandwiches and some that had fallen heavy and with split skins to the garden floor. We didn't mind their bruises. We set the baskets under a tree. The day was getting hotter and as we stopped for a rest and a cool drink, the family with the allotment next to ours arrived. Their two boys ran to greet us.

We were old friends by now. They told us one talking over the other in a quick galloping rush of words about summer camp and their new backpacks for school and that their neighbor had a pool. Do we know them? We don't. And later the going swimming. And did we want popsicles because mom brought popsicles? We didn't, but as my friend headed back to the rose to work. I sat for a few minutes at the picnic table under a big maple. On the youngest boy came back,

popsicle in hand, and awkwardly climbed up onto my lap. He sat, swinging his feet, and contentedly staring into the distance while he ate and dripped his treat onto my dusty work clothes. I rested my chin on his head and hummed a little. When he was done, he handed me the red stained stick and rushed back to play in the dirt again with his brother. Back to work then, I said, "Enjoying my friend in the rows of zucchini."

There were so many zucchini that we were a bit overwhelmed. I'd been grilling it, sauteing it and baking it into muffins and bread.

pasta. I'd given it to neighbors until they'd refused anymore.

“I remembered an old joke, something my uncle used to say, but if you left your car unlocked in a parking lot”

this time of year, you'd come back to find it filled with zucchini. We weren't the only growers with an overabundance, and luckily we'd found a food pantry, happy to take all that we wanted to give. They'd even set out bins at the entrance to the gardens, and we'd be leaving an awful lot of zucchini there today. We packed the fruits of our labor into our cars and shook hands,

silly and content at the successful completion of the plans we'd made.

Back when the snow was still on the ground, we'd done it. We were farmers now.

“From here we headed back to my place to Can Tomatoes until we dropped.”

I'd been reading up on it and had the counters lined with clean new jars and my pressure canner on the stove. There was a lot to do, but before anything else, we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of sliced cucumbers with sea salt sprinkled over them. I'd boiled some of those new potatoes the day before,

I cut them into chunks, and drizzled them with olive oil, and rose marry, and salt.

I'd set them out on the counter with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving the house that morning, so they'd be room temperature when we were ready to eat.

“I pulled the towel off the bowl, and the smell of rose marry hit me.”

Then I rinsed and had to mess up those tiny red and orange grape tomatoes. I drizzled all of oil over them and ripped basil leaves into the bowl. I added salt and a few garlic cloves, which I'd peeled and just cut in half. They were there for flavor, not for eating. Then I handed the bowl to my friend and dug out my tomato salad stirring spoon

from the back of the drawer. It was old from my grandmother's kitchen and had a long handle and was plenty big and deep. I told my friend to stir without stopping for five minutes. She raised an eyebrow, but set to work. You can't be hasty with some of things. Some things take a long time to cook or combine or ripen or grow and all you can do is be patient.

I turned the broiler on and cut a half dozen thick slices of bread. I laid them out on a sheet pan and brushed them with more olive oil and pushed them in. She stirred. I watched the toasting bread. Brisketta is meant to be well toasted so that when you top it with the juicy tomato salad, it stays crisp.

I waited for golden brown and just a little char around the edges and took them out. She dutifully kept to her work with the spoon while I played it up the bread and poured as glasses of tea. Okay, I said, and she brought the bowl over to add to the rest of the feast. The tomatoes had given some of their juice to the oil and the fruit was glossy and fragrant. We piled it onto the warm toasts, picking out the garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction

that comes from eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way through the potatoes and cucumbers. And when she sat back with a sigh, I filled her tea glass and broke the last cookie in the jar and half to share. We looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes, the rows of jars and all the work yet to do, but we didn't mind.

We chat or work in comfortable quiet as we cord and scored the fruit.

“We'd blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then stew them and sterilize the jars.”

Finally, the jars would go into the canner and as they came out, we would set them top down and

towels till they cooled. We'd split them up and set them neatly on our pantry shelves for soups and sauces in the winter. We were farmers, and now canners as well. Summer storm. The rain didn't start until the evening.

But the whole day had been dim and overcast and while sunshine lifted my spirits,

“there was something soothing about a cloudy day.”

It felt like a suggestion from nature to be quiet and do less. It felt like the moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders and you suddenly release them and feel the space around your heart open up. The windows were open all over the house. I'd been keeping them closed against the heat most days this summer.

Opening them up only late at night and early in the morning.

When the temperature outside, finally dropped lower than inside.

“But the cloudy day had been cooler from the start.”

I'd lit candles against the gloom and put fresh sheets on my bed and played a favorite album on repeat for most of the day. When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd lean into them, belting out and knowing every word.

I reminded me of being 20 in my first car,

singing at the top of my lungs along winding country roads. I still felt as carefree and ready for adventure as my 20 year old self. Even in my socks, and with a mug of chamomile tea held under my chin, they don't tell you this about growing up. You don't lose your younger selves as you age.

They aren't left behind. They just get added into the older versions. Like cards shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck, a more true understanding of yourself and the world. I had a friend who called this earth school and I liked thinking of it that way.

What I learned, what lessons I had to go back and take over again, and the realization that there was no graduating, just moving on to other subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds got thicker and the shadows in the house were deep. I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and made a batch of oatmeal, raisin cookies

along simmering pot of black bean soup and the crusty cottage loaf. I'd been nibbling at all three here and there whenever my stomach grumbled.

I'd felt ready to spend the remainder of the day doing very little and resting a lot.

“Breast is one of those two little used but very effective forms of gentle medicine.”

I'd learned a long time ago to think of it as I might think of drinking water. If I was thirsty, I didn't hesitate to take a drink.

I didn't try to get through the day first or get by on as little as possible.

And I certainly didn't feel guilty about taking as much as I needed. When I started to think of rest in the same way, it got easier to feel for when I needed it.

“To give it to myself without hesitation.”

So, I'd made a nest on the sofa. A big fluffy blanket, soft pillows, my book, my tea, and my dog who blessed her in her senior years, had managed to sleep through all my singing. She was an old, gray-faced, beagle, whose long, floppy ears were as soft as velvet. And though she didn't follow me around the house anymore, she did wait to lie sat down somewhere,

“and then scooted up into the seat beside me.”

I'd finally turned off my music and just listened to the steady sound of her breathing.

She had fawn speckles across her white and brown back and the stripe across the ankles of her back feet. I unclip her collar and massage her neck as we snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy, old dog grunts, and I thought back to our early days. When we'd run down the sidewalks together, her nose to the concrete, sniffing out the trails of every person and animal who'd passed by in the whole week before.

She didn't feel much like running these days, but her nose was still sharp. And most mornings, I could get her to play a favorite game. While she was out in the backyard, attending to her doggy business, I'd take one of her favorite cookies and walk it through the house,

setting it here and there, and finally leaving it somewhere she could reach.

When I let her back in, I'd pat her back and tell her to find the cookie. She'd start sniffing and snuffling along the floors, and her nose would go everywhere the biscuit had from one room to the other, until she found it and snatched it up with her teeth, from the seat of a chair in the dining room, or the edge of a stair in the landing. Or the inside of my shoe at the door. She was doing her own bit of earth's school.

We lay together as the afternoon turned to evening. My took turns between reading my book and letting it fall onto my chest as I dipped into sleep.

tiny rain drops struck the pain, like droplets of paint, flung from the end of a brush.

“The rain that we'd been expecting all day was finally falling.”

My nudged the window shut where the rain was coming in, and spooned up a bowl of soup. I cut a slice of bread, and carried it all back to our nest. I settled back into my spot, and my dog hitched herself up a bit, and laid her front pause over my

leg. I didn't know how much she could hear, or see. Maybe she was smelling it,

but she lifted her head and seemed to watch the rain come down.

“They went from mist to fall around heavy rain drops, and they thought of how green the grass would be”

within a week from today's dousing. The sound of the falling rain rang through the house, steady and drumming on the roof, racing along the eaves. I'm cascading through the downspouts. My water barrel would be full again in the morning. I broke bits of bread off, and she chewed them slowly, as we watched the rain outside.

Dinner and a show, I said, "Dar." It had rained all night, and when we finally moved

from the couch to the bed, we slept like rocks, till the morning light broke through our curtains. I was vaguely aware that there had been lightning, and thunder crashing in the distance,

“sometime in the middle of the night. I think I'd sat up in bed to make sure she wasn't startled”

by the noise, but she lay at my feet, snoring soundly. When I opened the back door, and we stepped outside, me still happily in my pajamas. A bright blue cloudless sky stretched above us, and the very best smell was coming up from the ground. That deep, after the storm rain smelled, they filled me back up with energy, and after our day of rest, I thought we might just try a walk this morning. We had another day of school, summer feast. I'd found the basket at a yard sale.

I'd been out for a walk in my neighborhood the autumn before, and as I turned a corner, found a row of houses with tables set up in their driveways, and blankets laid over their front lawns. All covered with formerly precious objects that were now ready for a new home. I'd strolled through the offerings, and found a few things I'd be happy to carry away with me. There were some funny, clip-on earrings in the shape of sunflowers,

that hadn't likely been worn since the '70s. A few spine novels with dusty book jackets that seemed perfect for afternoon reading on the porch, and a lovely wicker basket with sturdy handles, in line with a red checked cloth that looked like it could hold a hearty lunch to be eaten on a

Then I'd kept it out on my kitchen table for a week or so, waiting for a warm bright day to fill

“it with sandwiches, and cookies, and crisp autumn apples. But instead, winter had come early,”

and as the first snow of the season was falling outside, I'd regretfully stashed the basket

in a cupboard, to wait for next year's sunny days. Now, we were in the sweetest, warmest days of summer, and the basket was once again out on my table. It's wicker flaps tiped open and ready to be filled. The excitement of a meal with friends in a shady green spot, and my somewhat out of control vegetable garden meant that I had a lot to fill it with. I'd made a crunchy cucumber salad,

“with tart vinegar, and feathery fronds of dill. At had spent the morning marinating in the fridge,”

when I'd eaten the last pickled beet from the jar the night before, rather than pouring the

liquid out. I'd dropped some thinly sliced onions in, and sealed it back up. Today, I'd drained them out, and found they were sweet, and tangy, and a beautiful pink that made the cucumber salad feel ready for a party. Along with the cucumbers, the garden had given me a glut of green tomatoes. I cut them into thick slices,

“and sauteed them with shallots, and thyme, and balsamic vinegar.”

Until they were syrupy, and caramelized. Then I'd laid them into my tart pan,

on top of a homemade crust that was a bit lumpy, and lopsided, which I'd decided to call rustic. I'd folded the edges of the dough over the filling a bit, and baked it all off. When it was cool, I'd cut the tart into wedges, and wrapped them in wax paper, and into the basket they'd gone. I took things off on my fingers, salad, tart, plate, napkins, and forks.

Looking around the kitchen, I remembered the sweet cherries I'd rinsed in a collander in the sink. And found a bowl to seal them in, and just managed to fit them into the basket. I pulled a blanket down from the hall closet, the one I took to outdoor concerts, and to watch the fireworks from on the 4th of July. And fit it over the wicker top, pulling the handles up and around.

Soon, I was out the door, with my son hat on my head, and the basket heavy in my hands. Luckily, I didn't have far to go. Up one block, and around a corner. There was a tiny neighborhood park. Just a stretch of green grass, with a gravel path curving through it, and a few benches.

On one, were a couple of old friends, chatting as they waited for me. But their own contributions to the feast, on their laps. We laid out the blanket at the edge of the park.

And pinned the corners down with what we'd brought.

“I unpacked the basket, and laid out the dish of cucumber salad.”

The bowl of sweet cherries, and the wrapped pieces of green tomato tart. My friends applauded the menu, and filled their plates. To go with our lunch, one friend brought a chilled thermos of homemade lemonade. A cheat sweetened with lavender syrup.

She unpacked glasses, and poured some for each of us.

The other friend had a tin of homemade cookies, and he popped off the top to show us. They looked crispy, and delicious.

“With crisscross hatch marks on top, made with the tines of a fork.”

We handed around napkins, and forks, and leisurely ate. Sometimes leaning back on our hands.

And stretching our legs out of the cover of the shade to let them warm in the sun.

The tart crust had stayed crisp, and the tomatoes were rich and tender. A cucumber salad had been tasty, when I'd tried a fork full this morning. But now that it had spent a few more hours with its flavors blending and marinating. It was really delicious, and we went back for more, until the bowl was empty. The cherries were sweet and juicy, and I dropped the pits into the grass,

wondering if I might come back in 20 years, to find a tree grown up in our favorite spot. We took a break from eating for a bit, and laid down on the blanket, with our heads together, and our eyes turned up to the sky. It was bright blue.

“A kind of blue, that when you stop, to really look at it, is honestly astonishing.”

Have you had those moments? When you take a closer look at something you see every day, and feel just plain knocked out by it. A few clouds were moving very slowly across the sky. And we pointed out shapes to one another, as we had when we were children. My soul horse and mid-gallop, and as I watched, it snows stretched out in front of it.

And its flanks lifted and shifted until it had become a dragon. With wings open and a glacially slow flap. I turned my head and saw among the grass and the seed pods that had dropped from the tree beside our blanket, or the wide leaves of whistleweed. I plucked a piece, and lined it up so that the strip of green was stretched

in a straight line between my thumbs. I pressed my lips to the spot and blew. And found I could still make the loud haunting call I'd learn to in summer camp. My friends laughed at the sound, and we all realized why our camp counselors had begged us to quit all those years ago.

The tin of cookies was passed around, and we ate them. Still lying on our backs, watching the clouds moving across the sky.

It was a reminder to take time, to save our meals, instead of gulping them down,

and rushing on to the next thing.

“It was probably also meant to insert a little civility into our family dinners,”

to teach manners and a bit of propriety. I like thinking that in the end, good manners are really just about showing regard for the people around you. And then it can be done while you're lying in the grass with cookie crumbs in your hair.

I curled onto my side and tucked my arm under my head.

The warm air on my full belly were making me drowsy. I listened while my friends talked about this, that, and that my eyes closed, knowing that they were watching over, and that we had no place to be. Summer harvest. We've gotten here early today.

“To take advantage of the cool morning air.”

The sun was just coming over the trees, and the dew was still thick in the grass.

We were old hands by now. We knew how to weed, wind to water, and mostly wind to harvest. We'd had a few missteps along the way. Those potatoes had been tricky as predicted. But we'd managed to get a small crop of new potatoes and left some in the ground to grow bigger for the fall.

I'd been too timid to cut the broccoli.

“Unsure if it was ready, and came one day to find that the beautiful green florets”

had bloomed, and to even more beautiful yellow flowers. Oh well, we were learning. Today we were here to harvest. There would still be much more to come, but the plot was producing so quickly. But we'd had to come up with a plan for all we'd grown.

We'd brought giant wicker baskets to fill with pounds and pounds of tomatoes. I had a laundry basket lined with an old blanket for the cabbages and cucumbers and zucchini. The runner beans and green beans were mostly finished by now. But we'd left a row of the runners to dry on the vine for winter soups. Those wouldn't be harvested until almost all their leaves had dried and turned brown.

When I walked past them, I thought to myself that they would be ready about when the potatoes were. I liked thinking in those terms, instead of Tuesday or Wednesday. Instead of one-thirty or six o'clock, my timed things by when the potatoes would be harvested and the beans would be cut down and chilled.

We started in the tomato plants. The tangy smell of the vines rubbing off on our hands as we carefully picked the fruit. We had romance for sauce. Huge, lopsided heirloom tomatoes for slicing and salads.

And about a million tiny crispy cherry-and-grabed tomatoes that burst with an acidic snap in your mouth.

“We took a few that were yet unripe for fried green tomato sandwiches and some that had fallen heavy”

and with split skins to the garden floor, we didn't mind their bruises. We set the baskets under a tree, but day was getting hotter. And as we stopped for a rest and a cool drink, the family with the allotment next to ours arrived. Their two boys ran to greet us.

We were old friends by now.

They told us one talking over the other in a quick galloping rush of words about summer camp and their new backpacks for school and that their neighbor had a pool.

“Do we know them? We don't. And later they're going swimming.”

And did we want popsicles? Because mom brought popsicles. We didn't, but as my friend had it back to the rose to work.

I sat for a few minutes at the picnic table under a big maple.

And the youngest boy came back, popsicle in hand, and awkwardly climbed up onto my lap. He sat swinging his feet and contentedly staring into the distance while he ate. And dripped his treat onto my dusty work clothes. I rested my chin on his head and hummed a little. When he was done,

“he handed me the red stained stick and rushed back to play in the dirt again with his brother.”

Back to work then, I sat, and joined my friend in the rows of zucchini. There were so many zucchini. That we were a bit overwhelmed. I'd been grilling it, sauteing it, and baking it into muffins and bread. I'd shredded zucchini on my box greater and sauteed it with olive oil and garlic and tossed it with pasta.

I'd given it to neighbors until they'd refused anymore. I remembered an old joke, something my uncle used to say. But if you left your car unlocked in a parking lot this time of year, you'd come back to find it filled with zucchini. We weren't the only growers with an overabundance.

And luckily we found a food pantry, happy to take all that we wanted to give. They'd even set out bins at the entrance to the gardens and we'd be leaving an awful lot of zucchini there today. We packed the fruits of our labor into our cars and shokans, silly and content at the successful completion of the plan we'd made. Back when the snow was still on the ground.

We'd done it. We were farmers now. From there, we headed back to my place to canned tomatoes until we dropped. I'd been reading up on it and had the counters line with clean new jars and my pressure canner on the stove.

There was a lot to do, but before anything else, we needed to eat. I laid out a plate of sliced cucumbers with sea salt sprinkled over them.

Cut them into chunks and drizzle them with olive oil and fresh rosemary and salt.

“I'd set them out on the counter with a towel draped over the bowl before leaving the house”

that morning so they'd be room temperature when we were ready to eat. I pulled the towel off the bowl and the smell of rosemary hit me. Then I rinsed and halved a mess of those tiny red and orange grape tomatoes. I drizzle the olive oil over them and ripped basil leaves into the bowl.

I added salt and a few garlic cloves which I'd peeled and just cut in half.

They were for flavor, not for eating.

“Then I handed the bowl to my friend and dug out my tomato salad stirring spoon from the”

back of the drawer. It was old from my grandmother's kitchen. It had a long handle and was plenty big and deep. I told my friend to stir without stopping for five minutes. She raised an eyebrow but said to work.

You can't be hasty with some things.

“Some things take a long time to cook or combine or ripen or grow”

and all you can do is be patient. I turned the broiler on and cut a half dozen thick slices of bread. I laid them out on the sheet pan and brushed them with more olive oil and pushed them in. She stirred. I watched the toasting bread. Bruce Gada is meant to be well toasted so that when you top it with the juicy tomato salad

it stays crisp. I waited for golden brown and just a little char around the edges and then took them out. She due to flea kept her work with the spoon. While I played it up the bread and poured us glasses of tea. Okay I said when she brought the bowl over to add to the rest of the feast.

The tomatoes had given some of their juice to the oil and the fruit was glossy and fragrant. We piled it onto the worn toasts, picking out the garlic and crunching away with the satisfaction that comes from eating food you've grown yourself. We made our way through the potatoes and cucumbers and when she sat back with a sigh I filled her tea glass and broke the last cookie in the jar and half to share.

We looked around the kitchen, taking in the baskets of tomatoes, the rows of jars, and all the work yet to do. But we didn't mind. We'd turn on some music, tidy up the dishes, and start. We chat, or work, and comfortable quiet, as we cord and scored the fruit.

We'd blanch and shock it to take off the skins, then stew them and sterilize the jars.

Finally the jars would go into the canner, and as they came out we set them down on towels to

in the winter. We were farmers, and now canners as well.

“Summer storm. The rain didn't start until the evening.”

But the whole day had been dim and overcast and while sunshine lifted my spirits there was something soothing about a cloudy day, but felt like a suggestion from nature to be quiet and do less. It felt like the moment when you realize you've been hunching your shoulders, and you suddenly release them and feel the space around

“your heart open up. The windows were open all over the house. I'd been keeping them closed”

against the heat, most days this summer. Opening them up only late at night and early in the

morning, when the temperature outside, finally dropped lower than inside. But the cloudy day had

been cooler from the start. I'd lit candles against the gloom, and put fresh sheets on my bed, and played a favorite album on repeat for most of the day.

“When the notes fell into my rather limited range, I'd leaned into them,”

belting out, and knowing every word. It reminded me of being 20.

In my first car singing at the top of my lungs, along winding country roads,

my still felt as carefree and ready for adventure, as my 20 year old self. Even in my socks, and with a mug of chamomile held under my chin, they don't tell you this, about growing up. You don't lose your younger self as you age. They aren't left behind. They just get added into the older versions. Like cards shuffled together in a progressively fuller deck, a more true understanding of

yourself in the world. My head a friend who called this earth school, and I liked thinking of it that way. What I learned was lessons I had to go back and take over again. And the realization that there was no graduating, just moving on to other subjects and skills and interests. In the afternoon, the clouds got thicker, and the shadows in the house were deep.

I'd had a burst of energy in the morning and made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies along simmering pot of black bean soup and a crusty cottage loaf.

And once the mixing bowls and cookie sheets were washed and put away,

“I'd felt ready to spend the remainder of the day doing very little and resting a lot.”

Rest is one of those two little used but very effective forms of gentle medicine. I'd learned a long time ago to think of it as I might think of drinking water. If I was thirsty, I didn't hesitate to take a drink.

I didn't try to get through the day first or then get by on as little as possible.

“And I certainly didn't feel guilty about taking as much as I needed.”

When I started to think of rest in the same way, I got easier to feel for when I needed it and to give it to myself without hesitation. So, I'd made a nest on the sofa, a big fluffy blanket, soft pillows, my book, my tea, and my dog, who bless her in her senior years, had managed to sleep through all my singing.

“She was an old, gray-faced beagle who's long, floppy ears,”

whereas soft as velvet. And though she didn't follow me around the house anymore, she did wait till I sat down somewhere and then scooted up into the spot beside me.

I'd finally turned off my music and just listened to the steady sound of her breathing.

She had fallen speckles across her white and brown back and a stripe across the ankles of her back feet. I unclipped her collar and massage her neck as we snuggled on the couch. She let out sleepy old dog grunts, and I felt back to her early days when we'd run down the sidewalks together. Her nose to the concrete sniffing out the trails of every person and animal who'd passed by in the whole week before. She didn't feel much like running these days,

but her nose was still sharp, and most mornings I could get her to play a favorite game. While she was out in the backyard, attending to her doggy business, I'd take one of her favorite cookies and walk it through the house, setting it here and there,

and finally leaving it somewhere. She could reach. When I let her back in, I'd pat her back

And her nose would go everywhere the biscuit had, from one room to the other,

“until she found it and snatched it up with her teeth, from the seed of a chair in the dining room,”

or the edge of a stair in the landing, or the inside of my shoe at the door. She was doing her own bit of earth's school. We lay together as the afternoon turned to evening. I took turns between reading my book and letting it fall onto my chest as I dipped into sleep.

At some point, I got up to warm the soup, and as I stood by the kitchen window,

tiny rain drops struck the pain, like droplets of paint, flung from the end of a brush.

“The rain that we'd been expecting all day was finally falling.”

I nudged the window shut where the rain was coming in, and spooned up a bowl of soup. I cut a slice of bread, and carried it all back to our nest. I settled back into my spot, and my dog hitched herself up a bit. And laid her front paws over my leg. I didn't know how much she could hear or see, but maybe she was smelling it.

But she lifted her head and seemed to watch the rain come down. It went from mist to fall, round, heavy rain drops. And I thought of how green the grass would be, within a week, from tonight's dancing. The sound of the falling rain rang through the house. Steady and drumming on the roof, racing along the eaves,

and cascading through the downspouts. My water barrel would be full again in the morning. I broke bits of bread off, and she chewed them slowly, as we watched the rain outside. Dinner and the show, my sadder.

It had rained all night, and when we finally moved from the couch to the bed,

we slept like rocks till the morning light broke through our curtains. I was vaguely aware that there had been lightning and thunder crashing in the distance.

“Sometime in the middle of the night, I think I'd sat up in bed”

to make sure she wasn't startled by the noise. But she lay at my feet, snoring soundly. When I opened the back door, and we stepped outside, me still happily in my pajamas. A bright blue, cloudless sky stretched above us,

rains now. It filled me back up with energy. And after our day of rest,

“my thought, we might just try a walk this morning. We had another day of school.”

Summer feast. I'd found the basket at a yard sale. I'd been out for a walk in my neighborhood the autumn before. And as I turned a corner, found a row of houses, with tables set up in their driveways,

and blankets laid out over their front lawns. All covered with formally precious objects.

But we're now ready for a new home. I'd strawled through the offerings,

“and found a few things. I'd been happy to carry away with me.”

There were some funny clip-on earrings in the shape of sunflowers, but hadn't likely been worn since the '70s. A few spy novels, with dusty book jackets that seemed perfect for afternoon reading on the porch. And a lovely wicker basket, a sturdy handle, lined with a red-checked cloth, that looked like it could hold, a hearty lunch, to be eaten on a sunny summer day.

“When I've gotten it home and given it a thorough cleaning,”

I'd been so eager to use it, and I'd kept it out on my kitchen table for a week or so. Waiting for a warm, bright day to fill it with sandwiches and cookies and crisp autumn apples.

But instead winter had come early, and as the first snow of the season was falling outside,

I'd regretfully stashed the basket in a cupboard to wait for next year's sunny days. Now, we were in the sweetest warmest days of summer, and the basket was once again out on my table. It's wicker flaps tipped open and ready to be filled. The excitement of a meal with friends in a shady green spot,

and my somewhat out of control vegetable garden, meant that I had a lot to fill it with. I'd made a crunchy cucumber salad, with tart vinegar, and feathery fronds of dill, that had spent the morning marinating in the fridge. When I'd eaten the last pickled beet from the jar the night before,

rather than pouring the liquid out, I'd dropped some thinly sliced onions in and sealed it back up. Today, I'd drained them out and found they were sweet and tangy and a beautiful pink, but made the cucumber salad feel ready for a party.

I cut them into thick slices, and sauteed them with shallots, and thyme, and balsamic vinegar,

“until they were syrupy, and caramelized.”

Then, I'd laid them into my tart pan, and top of a homemade crust. That was a bit lumpy and lopsided, which I'd decided I would call rustic. I'd folded the edges of the dill over the filling a bit, and baked it up.

When it was cool, I'd cut the tart into wedges, and wrapped them in wax paper,

and into the basket they'd gone. My ticks things off on my fingers, salad, tart, plates, napkins and forks,

“looking around the kitchen, I remembered the sweet cherries I'd rinsed in a collander,”

in the sink, and found a bowl to seal them in. I'd just managed to fit it into the basket.

I pulled a blanket down from the hall closet,

the one I took to outdoor concerts, and to watch the fireworks from on the 4th of July, and set it over the wicker top, pulling the handles up and around. Soon, I was out the door, with my son hat on my head, and the basket heavy in my hands.

“Luckily, I didn't have far to go, up one block, and around a corner.”

There was a tiny neighborhood park, just a stretch of green grass, with a gravel path curving through it, and a few benches. On one, we're a couple of old friends, chatting as they waited for me, with their own contributions to the feast on their laps. We laid out the blanket at the edge of the park,

where there was a bit of shade under a cadelpatry, and pinned the corners down with what we'd brought. I unpacked the basket, and laid out the dish of cucumber salad, the bowl of sweet cherries, and the wrapped pieces of green tomato tart. My friends applauded the menu, and filled their plates.

To go with our lunch, one friend brought a chilled thermos of homemade lemonade, that she'd sweetened with lavender syrup, she unpacked glasses, and poured some for each of us. The other friend had a tin of homemade cookies, and he popped the top off to show us.

They looked crispy and delicious, it's criss-cross hatch marks on top, made with the tines of a fork. We handed round napkins, the forks, and leisurely ate, sometimes leaning back on our hands, and stretching our legs out of the cover of the shade to let them warm in the sun.

The tart crust had stayed crisp, and the tomatoes were rich and tender.

But now that it had spent a few more hours with its flavors blending and marinating,

it was really delicious.

“I'm going back for more until the bowl was empty.”

The cherries were sweet and juicy, and I dropped the pits into the grass. Wondering, if I might come back in 20 years, to find a tree, grown up in our favorite spot.

We took a break from eating for a bit and laid down on the blanket

with our heads together, and our eyes turned up to the sky. It was bright blue, a kind of blue that, when you stop, to really look at it, is honestly astonishing. Have you had those moments?

“When you take a closer look at something you see every day and feel,”

just plain knocked out by it.

A few clouds were moving very slowly across the sky. And we pointed out shapes to one another as we had when we were children. I saw a horse in mid-galip, and as I watched, it's nose stretched out in front of it, and its flanks lifted and shifted. Until it had become a dragon, with wings open in a glacially slow flap.

“I turned my head and saw among the grass and the seed pods that had dropped from the tree”

side or blanket, the wide leaves of whistleweed. I plucked a piece and lined it up so the strip of green was stretched in a straight line between my thumbs. I pressed my lips to the spot, a blue, and found I could still make the loud honking call I'd learn to in summer camp.

My friends laughed at the sound, and we all realized why our camp counselors had begged us to quit all those years ago. The tin of cookies was passed around, and we ate them, still lying on our backs, watching the clouds moving across the sky. My mother used to say, "When we sat down to the table for dinner,

we don't eat, we die." It was a reminder, to take time to save our meals, instead of gulping them down, and rushing on to the next thing. It was also probably meant to insert a little civility into our family dinners, to teach manners, and a bit of propriety.

I liked thinking that, in the end, good manners are really just about showing regard for the people around you. And that, it can be done while you're lying in the grass, with cookie crumbs in your hair. And I curled onto my side, and tucked my arm under my head. The warm air and my full belly were making me drowsy.

and that my eyes closed, knowing they were watching over. And that we had no place to be. Sweet dreams.