Four-Wheel Drive

Time had warped in front of our eyes, wrapping us up, twisting us around, and around, around, around. Wednesday. The first time in weeks neither of us were subject to morning commitments and we could embrace a slow-paced, mid-morning meal. 

The eggs sizzled underneath the clear glass lid, yolks resisting the urge to cook. The fragrant smell of baked sweet potatoes and rosemary filled the basement suite. A Sunday breakfast was soon to be ready. Although, as said before, it was Wednesday. 

Coffee sat in the french press, yet to be plunged, there were two minutes left to steep. Accompanying the coffee were two glasses, apple juice, forks, and an arrangement of cacti. My wife sat at the table, patiently waiting while conjuring thoughts of productivity that would surely consume the day. 

Our assortment of cacti and succulents.

Eggs were laid upon a sweet potato base with a final addition of crumbled feta. Bon Appétit. A moment we had, unbeknownst to us, been waiting for. Casual conversation covered topics including, but not limited to, plants, cars, bikes, houses, jobs, chores, gardens, podcasts, woodworking, sewing, and tea. 

The “chores” conversation most relevant to the day ahead, resurfaced like a buoy in a maddening storm. 

“We should probably….” 

Back to the depths with yee!

 “I want to clean…”  

Oh no you don’t!

“Let’s make a list of to-dos”

Ooo, a list? Okay.

The list, like a beanstalk, grew and grew! Oh my, how tall the list became, it felt as if I was climbing it with my eyes! Soon our 3x5 page in the notebook was nearing capacity, I feared that the day would last forever with such a boundless list. 

But! With the two of us, we surely can complete all these tasks!

Far from quickening our joyous pace of breakfast, we resumed our casual conversations and dropped the tasks of the day. Then, without the slightest warning, the garbage truck scooped up our neighbor's bin and dumped it with horrifying shaking and thrashing. 

“At least our bin is safe under the stairs” we telepathically gloated…

SHIT! 

Our can is under the stairs!

Glass recycling, garbage, recycling, deposit cans, non-deposit cans - under the stairs.

 It had been a couple weeks since our last garbage day and there was no more jumping in the bin that would allow for further household disposal. It was, in the full sense of the word, glutted. 

With the speed and agility of a starved leopard, I lept to my feet and towards the mess of shoes coagulated at the front door. My feet, lacking the usual socks, could not quickly slip into any proper shoes. In addition to the lack of socks, who could spare the time to lace up shoes?! 

The garbage truck passed by our house. The neighbors’ bin to the east now suffered the same fate. A ruthless inverted shaking saved for only the most vile of bins. 

Suddenly, my eyes looked upon the choice pair of shoes. Crocs. Light, airy, easy-on, and, in case you were wondering, Four-Wheel Drive. I flipped back the four-wheel drive mode and knew that I was in for the race of a lifetime. As I burst through the door I heard my fretting wife say “There’s three weeks of garbage in there! It’s too heavy, you’ll never make it!” Stopped in my tracks, I turned “I’ve got to try!”. 

Four-wheel Drive crocs.

The way I handled the bin, spun it around, and began to push made me feel like a country swing-dancing star, as if all my disorderly dancing had led up to this point. With the bin in front of me, I sprinted down the middle of the neighborhood street, hoping that the driver of the garbage truck would spot me and, out of sympathy, stop. 

The universe had aligned! The intermittent dumpster that was fed the household bins was full and needed to be purged into the rear of the massive reeking vehicle. The garbage truck stood still, as did time. Swerving, breathing heavily in my unscripted, breakfast-interrupting sprint, I pulled up beside the operator of the vehicle. “May I?” I wheezed. A silent, but reassuring nod gave me the go-ahead. I wheeled the bin to the side of the road and stood back. The hydraulic arm clutched the bin, inverted it, and shook madly as if garbage had been packed down over a period of time….The empty bin returned to the pavement, unscathed.

I stood by my loyal garbage bin as the garbage truck passed by and continued gorging on neighborhood bins. Grabbing the bin by a handle, I casually strolled back towards breakfast. My head held high, chest puffed out (most likely a recovery tactic), and triumphant as ever I returned the bin under the stairs. 

I entered the house to resume, what had been, a lovely breakfast. I slipped off my crocs and returned them to their casual walking mode, making sure to appreciate their diverse uses. “If it hadn’t been for crocs and four-wheel drive, I’m not sure I would’ve made it” My wife rolled her eyes, her disgust for my shoes not quite hidden. “Come have a seat” she sighed.

That’s exactly what I did.

Emptied out and back home.

Once Wild

A special moment to be on the Columbia

We were adrift on the waters of the Columbia, summer’s end nearing like the next bend, slowly coming into sight.  I was attune to the river’s inherent wildness. I took note of the seasonal changes to occur, as, with any wild river, low water subsequent to the high. 

I had a profound realization. In nearly 28 years of life, growing up downstream, I had, not once, seen the Columbia fluctuate in flow. Surely you have, you just never noticed! Well, most likely yes, but never in accordance with the seasons. The Columbia where I grew up changed when the dams decided it was time for a change, by the human hand. For the first time, I witnessed the seasonal fluctuation of the Columbia River. I thought it to be...Remarkable.

Noticing bends in the river, swaying around large gravel bars, and the waterways which we used to explore. It was all different. No longer could we paddle down the overgrown and narrow channel, sure to be stopped by a log jam. Reeds and grasses which we would gently skim over now stood two meters overhead. Wildlife, particularly beavers, escorted us downriver, tail slapping and creating sprays welcoming us to their home (Beavers definitely do not do this, but it’s a nice thought). The Columbia, for once, felt wild. 

September 2nd, snow lingers in the alpine. The exposed bank displaying the water level fluctuation.

Sat face to face, tethered bow to bow and stern to stern, we floated the lazy Columbia. A salad containing assortments of fruits and vegetables was served as dinner, complemented by a small charcuterie. Washing down the exquisite cuisine was none other than “Alexander Keith’s: the original craft beer”, as I believe it is called. 

Is there a finer way to experience such a unique area, passing through without a trace or trail, enjoying the company of friends both new and old? The recognition of wilderness leaves me noticing that I had never thought of the Columbia as wild. I am thankful to experience the sleepy untamed waterway. It is not far, perhaps a day's float, where the wild Columbia succumbs to the works of man, a wild river is tamed, a reservoir born, and the songs of motorboats replace that of the birds.

A Summer’s Tomato

It is not early when I awake. The sun shines through the slits in the blinds, a lawn mower works busily in the distance. It is summer and everything is busy. From sunup to sundown small motors whine as they carry out their tasks. Trucks passing by with cords of wood preparing for winter and young families stroll the sidewalk-less streets admiring homes. There is one resident at this time of year who hides away under green leaves.

A grape tomato beginning to show it’s true colors.

Seen in nearly every garden around North America, is the Tomato. Whether they’re grape, slicers, cherry or heirloom they are surely there. Growing sloppily and overburdened by their fruit, the tomato plant reaches out, looking for support. In our garden rather than finding support, the tomatoes have become supports for our volunteer beans that magically arose in abundance from last year's wayside crop. There are three varieties of tomato in our garden, each ripening at it’s own pace.

Unripe tomatoes promising a worthy harvest.

The cherry tomato ripens first, marble ball sized fruits ablaze with reds and oranges. A slow second to ripen is the grape tomatoes. Oblong fruits not much larger than the tip of a thumb emerge among the foliage, mostly unnoticed. Yet to show a trace of red are the slicer tomatoes. The bulbous fruits weigh so heavily on the plant that they are practically growing among the shaded cucumbers as they rest ever so slightly above the soil. Surely they will be rich with flavor.

A bounty of slicer tomatoes yet to ripen.

There is a pronounced punctuation to summer. An ode to the sun, the transformation of soil, and gratitude for abundant watering that occurs daily. The Harvest.

I pour my morning cup of coffee as I have so many times before, the bands of steam swirl, promises of an awakening. I shuffle about the house collecting odds of clothing to wear for my first outing of the day. Composed of my fading T-shirt, sweats and garden shoes (AKA knock-off crocs) I collect my coffee from the counter and head towards the garden for it’s daily inventory. 

Reaching over the wooden gate, I flip the lock up, entering the backyard. Here is where all the magic happens, three garden beds expanding with life grab your attention. What do I notice that’s different today? I think to myself as I near the garden. 

1 barbeque, 2 canoes, 3 garden beds.

The peas are tall

The flowers in the far corner have bloomed, a delicate display of white flowers. 

Oooo, Look at this! Beans! 

And, peering into the depths of greenery, red tomatoes! 

Peering into the garden depths, tomatoes are ripening.

I reach into the crisscrossed stems, waiting for contact with the round body of the tomato.

Hmmm, nope, that's a leaf….Ah! Oh, wait, that’s the stem...annnddddd…voilà!

I grasp the red tomato and pinch it off of the plant. It’s fruit is a gift to me. I take a moment to appreciate the small fruit in my hand. It feels a tad dusty, but ultimately smooth. I twist off the remaining stem and toss it back into the garden. Nutrients for next year. The deep red color is fiery in my hand, veins of orange hint at it’s latest outburst of growth. I gently wipe the tomato on my shirt, removing the dust from the glabrous skin. Raising the delightful little fruit to my mouth, I take a second to savor the smell of the summer tomato. 

There is no other smell like that of a summer’s tomato. It is the trademark of a successful summer garden, perhaps the climax of a gardener’s summer. The smell can be described as grassy, a bit earthy, and occasionally sweet. Whatever it may be, it is fantastic. There is no other time of year when that precious smell occurs, unless you change hemispheres of course. It is a moment I look forward to annually. A celebration of summer that has been warm and bountiful, a reminder that fall is soon to come and the smell of summer will end. 

Before I bite into the special fruit, I enjoy the smell one last time. Popping the tomato into my mouth, I crunch down. There is no replacement for such a bold tomato flavor, just off the vine, the quality exists in no store. 

Fortunately for me, I have plenty more tomatoes to pick and summer carries on just a little longer. 

A day’s harvest.