Stop and Smell the Roses

47 tomatoes… a bumper crop for me.  Not too bad considering that I grow these babies in pots on my deck.  But a long way from the thousand or two my mom grew, without any effort, mind you, as they were “volunteers” and came up every year without much coaxing.  I didn’t do anything different with these plants than I have any other year, but compared to the usual four or five I have harvested in the past, this was just short of phenomenal.  They even tasted like real tomatoes.  Yes, it’s true I do enjoy the simpler pleasures.  But so would you if you nodded your head when I said that and fantasized about a BLT with a big, juicy, ripe tomato placed upon it (yes, it is also true that I am at the age that this is about the extent of my fantasies).

The crispness in the fall air has led me to reminisce about the bygone summer.  I thought I better hurry and do this because a) I don’t want to forget and b) winter will be here before you know it and more memories will have to be stored away.  I am using a FIFO (first in, first out) approach as I am finding that the memory truly is the first thing to go.

My qualification if something is good, bad or indifferent has matured over the years and I am not as rigid or stingy with my appraisals.  It used to be that I set pretty high standards, which were tough to meet.  If something, someone or somewhere cut the mustard and made it to the top I knew it was exceedingly special.  On the other hand, if it didn’t, oh well – should have tried harder.  Realizing that I missed out on a lot of things, due to this self-imposed stringency, I vowed to stop and smell the roses.

Glad I did.  This summer was one of fresh experiences that, without this new approach to life, may have landed in the indifferent column and not appreciated to their fullest.  By taking a different attitude towards what was right in front of me, I came away a much richer person.  Case in point: walking through a farmers market, searching out the fattest, most succulent blackberries became an anticipated weekly excursion.  I reveled in the hunt.  I enjoyed the camaraderie of the other shoppers and the banter of the merchants.  Knowing the earlier you arrived, the better the pick, I made a point of organizing my life around the event of the day.  Happily I inspected the goods, savoring the gentle atmosphere and planning on the cobbler I was going to make when I got home with the trophy of freshly-picked blackberries.  Thinking of my human eating machine snarfling down the still warm enchantment, with vanilla ice cream, was beguiling.  Who would have thought this could be a recipe for a terrific day?

Feeling a bit like comfort food for the brain, recollections of the past season are a warm embrace that can fill you up.  Next year, I am going to shoot for another abundant tomato harvest; get to as many farmers markets stands as I can; watch a few more sunrises and sunsets and continue to appreciate what is there in front of me.  Matter of fact, I may even try to do that all year round.  Never know what I might chalk up to experience, save for posterity and store away, not to be forgotten.

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.                    

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-