The Mint Patch Monologue

Tag: nature

  • 30 Summers

    The end of June has me thinking about time…

    My work of 40 hours a week comes in quick, and early on Monday mornings. The daily routine begins with coffee, answering phone calls, answering questions, lots of standing, lots of listening to folks unload their woes. I collect my pay in exchange and go on about my day until another morning ferries me onto the next calendar square. We count the hours, my coworker and I, and bargain with the clock to move quickly…we beg for 5 o clock. How bad our days must be to “wish our lives away” in some sort of ignorance, ignoring our aging bodies while climbing up the trellis of mortality. Yes, the days are long, but the years are getting shorter.

    If I live to be 70, I’ll get another 30 summers.

    Another 30 gardens

    30 pool seasons

    30 more years of perfectly ripe cantaloupes.

    This, of course, is the plan… but what if I only get 5 or 10 more summers, 1 or 2 more?

    If this be my last then let me swim, and sweat, and be wild. Let my skin turn golden brown, my arms and legs go limber in the heat, my hair turn light around my face. 30 more times I’d want to see mist coming up from the lake after a steamy midday thunderstorm makes way for the sun’s return. I’d want to watch the yellow finch perch atop my sunflowers and pluck with delight its seeds, the bumblebees bounce from one bright bloom to another.

    To turn the garden hose against myself and dry off in the afternoon sun, to pour salt on ripe watermelon and spit seeds across the yard. I’d stay drunk on “still-hot-from-the-sun-tomatoes” eating them like apples, one after another. I’d go swimming every, single, day.

    But oh, to think about having 30 more summers leaves me in a state of bliss today. 30 more winters may fade the barn wood of my bones but 30 more springs would trickle a rosy pink back into my cheeks, just as the frozen creeks thaw. 30 more times I could watch the leaves turn from luscious green to bronze, fall onto the dark reflection of the water’s surface and glide away down the river.

    Maybe I am in this time reflection because of a sad conversation I had this week with a patient. A young, 74 years old fellow who had a biopsy on a lung spot came to me with the report. “It’s cancer, and not the kind that’s curable.” He went on to explain that the treatment would be a kind of cruel torture that didn’t interest him, and so he has been acquainted with the hospice program. These are low moments at work, words come slow and sometimes the truth just has to have its own silence in order to exist. He smiled, said thanks, and then him and his wife went on about their day. This must be his last summer, I thought to myself.

    Because I’m thinking of Michael this weekend, I will not let these short years go by without some reverence. I will not let my Monday morning cancel joy this week, and I will not sit back and let another summer fade casually by.

    For a Monday

    Monday mornings start with the wicked alarm
    Threatening you out of bed, filled with dread
    But falsely.
    Because, the world is sweet on Mondays
    Full of beginner’s charm
    My dear you must disarm
    And sip hot coffee against the cool dawn
    Like fresh steps of a summer fawn
    Go out into the day, and find a way
    To love the world.

    -Sarah Justice 2026

    Thank you for reading, and reach out because I DO love to chat!

    justicesarah67@yahoo.com

  • Turning the Corner

    This one into the fall, and I can feel my skin again. There was a briskness outside today, and instead of feeling encased in stagnant heat, the chill brought an awareness to my arms and my nose. The cool air went down smoothly into my lungs; I smelled the fallen leaves, I thought about playgrounds. There are delicate sheets of intricate webs hanging from tree limbs to slumped-over sunflowers, traps for the last of the flies. Around this corner there is no need for protective shade from heat or structure from harsh rain, darkness is creeping into my evenings. The cinnamon is left out, the oven has been busy. I resurrected the pumpkin sweater from the depths of my closet, and I looked carefully at wool socks while out shopping, but a new pair can wait. Everything can wait after turning the corner. If we don’t stop to savor the orange glow of fall we wont be properly tempered for winter and might freeze to death. Fall is like the last few bites of melted ice cream you really dig for at the bottom of the bowl, when it’s over all you can hope for is another one.

    The peach tree leaves are turning yellow, and I wish I could count them as they fall a bit more each day.  This week I’ll find myself decked out in flannel, raking up those leaves into a pile for the raised beds. Those are the moments when I feel like I’m in magazine photos, advertising for the newest outdoor brand. I might even pose for my own entertainment, maybe toss leaves into the air and laugh. Can you remember the last time you dove into a pile of leaves? I was always convinced there might be a snake hiding out among the swirling patterns, I was a cautious child. I insisted the leaves be stuffed into those plastic orange bags that had jack o lantern faces on them. Whimsy.

    Finally the magic, and mystic joys come to life.  A time we can believe Mr. Chicken after spending the night in that “haunted house.” Don Knots was a brilliant actor… the gardening sheers and the blood! Bless his heart, a hero in the end. I’m not a fan of horror films but I do have a checklist of movies I enjoy every year. For a complete list of my October watch list send me an email, I would love to share.

    This is a good time to build your indoor nest, drag out the electric blanket, unfold old quilts hidden in trunks, reach for those house shoes that have spent months hiding under the bed. Hats and scarves can wait of course, snow is a few weeks out and besides, let’s not get in a hurry. The sky is changing too, the sun doesn’t climb as high anymore and shadows grow long. My patience seems to grow longer this time of year too, what’s the fuss of being in a rush when there are stacks of fodder shock and dancing scarecrows to admire? Nevertheless the squirrels are in a mighty rush to prepare for winter, they are building nests too, and their busy scurrying is curious to watch.  There are folks who keep them fed at our own 47 acre Central Park, the spoiled little creatures carry mouthfuls of peanuts and on occasion, french fries.

    The slanted sunlight on the purple mums sends my soul into orbit, circling from one beautiful thing to another. A carpet of leaves, the full harvest moon, a decorated hearth, fresh pumpkin flesh scattered for chickens, hot coals, hot chocolate, plumes of rising smoke, Indian corn, candy wrappers, plaid bows, little candle flames, and buckets of gourds.
     

    Dearest reader, may you be fulfilled with the rich aromas and sensations of fall, address a letter to The Great Pumpkin, and dip your apples into as much caramel as a slice can hold on to.

    Thank you for reading, and drop me a line sometime, I DO love to chat!

    justicesarah67@yahoo.com