We travel behind the tomato truck. It's hot, it's August, and the tomatoes are orange. The weeds along the lane are yellow now, crispy and golden like cornflakes.
The children fall asleep at the first turn, leaving their mother to admire the wispy cornfields growing green, competing with the walnut trees in the other field. The stalks are almost as tall as the trees now. They grow with the enthusiasm of youth. The walnut trees are older, quieter in color and form. They ignore corn's contest, they're too mature for such things. I wax poetic about the corn and it's short, enthusiastic life. I almost run over a chipmunk.
A dirt road later we pull into the drive. The farm dogs run to greet the city dog, the three little boys, and the weary mother with the runny nose. The fruit trees are dusty and the zinnias are faded. This is the season for farm visits.
Now.
While the corn is racing to the sky, while the tea is iced and the mud in the cow pasture is caked and cracked, now while the peaches are cobbler worthy.
August is the month for sunshine and sweat, for facing the summer head-on with same dedicated determination of the growing corn. The corn knows summer is short. Soon it will be just a memory wrapped in a sweater with a side of hot chocolate. The perspiration is precious, the tomato truck a treasure, and everything is seasonal...except perhaps, cold viruses and Kleenex.
