I met my mother out on the airstrip at 3 a.m. to watch the meteors, the Perseids. I thought I’d watch for a while, then go inside, and start to compose this piece. Writing, in the summer, is not a priority or a goal but there are deadlines I agreed to. And though chiefly a farmer, I cave to the impractical notion of doing “art” when there are tomatoes to be picked. My compromise is to write when it is too dark to be in the field.
My mother is already out on the grass strip—my brother maintains a grass landing strip, one third of a mile long, just outside my door. It leads from the head of our property all the way down to Sagg Pond. The night which had been clear was less so now: low clouds caught lights from all around and even here in Sagaponack, down close to the ocean, it was lighter than it should have been. My mother and her friends were on lawn chairs and drinking coffee. All together they were three, not half asleep but with restive eyes to take in the widest view, waiting. The meteors fell like slow drops of light from the black, high sky into earth’s hazy glow. I stayed for three and then, abandoning at 3:23 a.m. my obligations as a writer, went back to bed. I’ll think clearer with a good night’s rest is what I say.
Tomato season marks summer’s peak. Mine began earlier than usual this year, about a week before I expected them. Tomatoes don’t mind it hot, they don’t mind it dry either, and that’s what we’ve had this year. I have, in my dozen years of farming, decided that August can change everything. August brought a little rain just when we needed it and then a lot more rain when we could handle it. And then from heaven, more heat. This year, compared to last, is so far, a banner. There is steady abundance, variety and flavor. My vine-stained hands prove it. The challenge this season is not if I can keep picking all the bad fruit off my plants, but if I can harvest all the good.
It is called a heat wave because you can ride it. And you know, all the while it goes on, eventually the ride will end, a gentle roll or an upset crash, maybe in October with a frost, maybe tomorrow. This is why it seems especially irresponsible to stop from being in the height of summer and resort instead to writing about it. Fin.
