So. Let’s pretend that now is the place to begin and the space between this and the last post didn’t just wiz by without the telling of the first days we were able to sit on the porch and eat spring collard green hummus wraps that were so freaking good and exciting, but now we can sit on the beach and have fresh salsa before and after swimming.  Take that brassica greens.

I wrote an early spring blogpost, which is now outdated, but I’m tempted to post it regardless. In part because it’s already written, but mostly because it puts farm time into perspective.  All of the vegetables and fruits I was waiting on, impatiently, have come and gone. I hadn’t even begun to dream of eating a stack of grilled eggplant and zucchini with basil, bacon, mozzarella and TOMATO, as we did last weekend, oceanside.  That was too far away.  I was still reeling from a long winter.  Looking over my shoulder, worried it might drop in again and upset the strawberries I was planning on turning into jam, pie, ice cream and a tall, tall cake.  Check all that off the list.

The light has shifted past the peas and peonies.  There are golden streaks in the river as we bike to work.  In the melon patch yesterday we talked about starting to harvest the winter squash.  (IN THE MELON PATCH. HARVESTING MELONS!)  The garlic is drying.  The first plantings of cucumbers and beans have stopped producing.  If spring is the time to hurry up and wait, and the height of summer is hurry up and hurry up more, late summer is the wait, wait, everything has hurried up too fast.  We are closer to the end than to the beginning, and wasn’t the beginning four months ago?

A strange thing happened yesterday.  My friend Matt and I were transplanting lettuce, when lightening struck us.  It was surreal, and thankfully, fortunately, not serious.  But we both felt it. He saw currents shoot out of his hands as I watched a huge bolt hit down not far behind him. I’ve never heard thunder clap so loud, and some force, fear or electric, dropped me straight to the ground.  There was no warning that this particular cloud would be the one to strike. Walking down to the field we heard a distant thunder, but it was all blue skies and white poofs above and we commented on how nice a thunderstorm would be.

It hasn’t been the hottest of summers here, but it’s been humid and buggy and there have been many a post-work jump in the lake, river, or shower.  We’ve applied sunscreen twice a day, craved popsicles and wished to set under the maple tree with a book.  We’ve all travelled the globe at least once in our get-away dreams, particularly to farms that are weed-free, full of rests and fruits which aren’t partial to the Maine climate.  We’ve thought and thought again about what to do during the winter.  We’ve wondered how to reconcile the want to continue farming, travel, and further other goals, plus deal with that whole money bit so much that it’s now mundane conversation.  What are you going to do this weekend?  How are you going to write more and visit all the bakeshops you desire and grow vegetables?  Where have all the scissors, pens and harvest knives disappeared to?

You can be having such conversations when a single thunder cloud in an otherwise clear sky, lets loose one shock of thunder, followed by, although I’d say it was nearly simultaneous, a zing of electricity that may or may not have caused your back to tingle and your mind to go blank.

It was so fast and so surreal that we just looked at each other, wide-mouthed, lettuce trays in hand.  Matt said: We just got hit by lightening, and it occurred to me just then, that yes, yes we did.  So we ran.  Out of the field, to the woods.  There was a small rumble of thunder to the north, but otherwise, the sky was bright and harmless and it didn’t even rain.  I noticed that Matt’s hands were shaking as he called our co-workers for a ride back to the barn.

The cloud passed and we were fine.  We can still pick flowers for the dye pot, use the yard berries to make scones and wander along the trail through the woods to the shore in a t-shirt and sandals.  But, the days are getting shorter and we will note more and more that it feels like fall, and it will be fall.  Lightening strikes, late-blight is in Maine, and there isn’t any way of stopping it.

Please note, regrets for the lack of pictures, but that was a delaying factor in my original spring post.  They’ll be coming soon, along with other improved blog features, including the revealing of my post-lightening superpowers.