Mr. King's heirloom tomatoes (among them Cherokee Purple, Chocolate, Pink, Brandywine [not ready yet], White). Today's haul? Chocolate, Pink, and Cherokee Purple.
My father grew tomatoes in my childhood, snapped them off the vine, brushed them against his jumpsuit, bit into flesh, wiping the juice with a red bandanna, always stored in a back pocket. Then, I did not like tomatoes: they were bitter like lemons and oranges. Now, I love heirlooms, mostly the locally ones I can buy for just a few weeks. These are worth the wait.
2.
Cicadas leave their spent selves (shed skins called exuviae) hanging on trees, stems, gate and deck posts, after emerging into their adult selves, not unlike the odonates I stalk. This summer, I've seen their exuviae, and I've enjoyed cicada choruses. Today, I saw my season's first actual insect, clinging to my deck post, just as the storm blackened the forest beyond. Like emerald fire, his greenness burned.3.
The predicted storm rode in on a few isolated plops, then staccato patters, and finally drum snaps, accompanied by wind, but none of it threatening, the kind of afternoon storm that reminds me of childhood naps at home or camp and invites a comfy chair, cats, and a beautiful novel. I gave up a Tim O'Brien reading for Anthony Doerr's All the Light We Cannot See, a book so beautiful that I have saved the last chapter, to savor later, maybe even tomorrow.
4.
Tomatoes, rainstorms, literary enchantment converge in one perfect summer afternoon.
