On cycles

Last night we heard a whistle, then a bang; our neighbor saw a flash. I figured someone had launched a bottle rocket, and today Leslie found the evidence near the compost bin, a bright yellow cardboard tube attached to a pink stick

As I was walking by the Brussels sprouts, a pair of cabbage moths flitted by--while I've no particular opinion what two adult cabbage moths do with each other, I do care about the damage done by their voracious babies.

I swatted clumsily at the moths, using the spent bottle rocket. A wing floated softly to the ground. I found the other wing still attached one of the critters, now flailing on the grass.

I do not like to kill, but if I need to kill, I prefer to do it consciously. I crushed the writhing animal quickly.

A moment later, a monarch butterfly fluttered around me, nearly landing on the same spent firework, maybe mistaking it for a flower.

The story has little point for most readers. I write it so Leslie and I will remember it next year. We do not remember things as well as we used to.

***

Tonight we sat down to pesto and tomato salad, both gifts from the garden. We paddled on tidal waters a good chunk of the afternoon. I watched hundreds fiddler crabs pick at the mud with their smaller claws, then bringing food to their mouths. I watched sea urchins just under the wateras I drifted along the edge of a bridge. I saw a tern crash into the water, emerging with a minnow writhing as the moth had.

The beans have gone nuts--we picked almost 4 pounds yesterday, and plenty remain on the vine. The leaves are no longer bright green as the summer light fades. The vine's faith rests in the bean pods.

When I look at last year's posts in late August, I see I talked about similar things. If we live long enough, we will do so again next year, next decade.

From the last Saturday in August 2009:

August is a silly month--we gorge on the harvest while the sun swings wildly to the south in its death dance. Few of us notice.

Tonight Leslie and I feasted on eggplants from the garden, cooked over charcoals coaxed to flames by olive oil from Italy, a country I pretend to know something about, though I've only been in its airport in Rome. The flames were fueled by sunlight almost half a world away

Leslie and I spend half our lives near the Delaware Bay, Jersey side. We can watch the sun set on the water on the beach a few blocks away. In June we look to our right--now we look slightly to our left.

Same story, a slightly different role for us as we age.

And that is the point.

I sought permission from Ms. Kelly to use her father's cartoon.
She granted it. This may be the highlight of my blogging efforts.
I still need to write a post worthy of the post--when I do, I'll let Ms. Kelly know.