I’m trying to love the rainy weather. Or at least to appreciate it. Continuous swaths of grey. Mist. Moist. Unrelenting cloud cover. Day. After day. After day.

I’m failing.

Miserably.

This morning I looked through our front door out into the ever-present grey and misty air. Looking down I saw several bruised and battered phlox blossoms and a smashed slug on the granite step. It occurred to me that I could take a picture of that and entitle it “Summer 2023.” That felt a bit dark. But oh so accurate.

Yesterday, I drove to the grocery store. When I emerged into the misting rain, I found not one, but two snails crawling along the sides of my car. I’m pretty sure I brought them along with me from home for the ride. I didn’t appreciate the stowaways, and flicked them to the paved ground with grim satisfaction.

“Take that!” I muttered gleefully, fully embracing my newly arisen homicidal snail urges.

I keep telling myself that we’ve been spared the risk of wildfires, the smoke from Canadian wildfires, and the slow relentless burn of drought. Despite limited sun, my gardens are in full bloom…at least those plants that haven’t been eaten by the snails and slugs. Weeds are running rampant since I haven’t gotten outside to pull them, but, on the other hand, I haven’t had to lug water to the hanging and potted plants. Also, rainy days offer some motivation and opportunity to tackle long-deferred household projects. I should appreciate all these things. Right?

That’s great in theory, but it just isn’t happening in reality.

I cannot bring myself to appreciate this.

Recently, having given up hope for a break in the pattern, people have begun to say, “Maybe this is going to be the new normal.”

I can barely rouse myself from the fog of rainy weather torpor long enough to protest.

Ugh.

I eavesdrop shamelessly in the strawberry fields. I listen to the casual comments called back and forth across the row.

“How ya’ doin’, Frank?”
“Pretty good. You?”
“I’m almost done over here.”

There’s a quiet rhythm to berry picking, and conversations slow down to match that pace. Words and phrases drop softly into the air, like berries into green cardboard quart containers. Stories unfold about grandchildren, septic problems, celebrations and health scares.

This morning it’s damp and foggy. I stick to my row, picking berry after berry, sliding my slowly-filling container along with me. My sweater sleeves are sodden from reaching through the plants in search of ripe berries. My jeans are plastered to my lower legs.

I don’t remember picking berries with my grandmother or mother. Still, there were always quilted glass jars, gleaming in jewel tones in the pantry. In those days they poured melted wax across the top of the jam before capping it. I remember so clearly, so viscerally, opening the jar to that wax circle. Pushing it down. Watching it crack in two and scooping up the halves to reveal the preserved jam below.

In more recent years my mother-in-law and daughters picked with me. On the first day of the season, we were always in the fields early–chatting, laughing together, picking. What did we talk about then? Was there a solitary berry picker listening to our conversations? Our hour in the fields was followed by companionable hours in the kitchen, making batch after batch of jam.

Today, I pick alone. I’m content to listen. Still, a haze of melancholy lingers even as the fog lifts, revealing blue skies and a rare glimpse of sun.

Soon, I’ll have picked my fill and will head home. I’ll clean the berries, mash them and stir them as they boil on the stove. The air will hang hot, humid, and thick with the scent of warm strawberries. Later the freshly-filled hot jars will click as they seal. Preserving all the flavors. All the memories.

sun-ripened berries
generations guide my hands
ah, the jam is sweet

©Molly Hogan

What was it I heard recently? Was it on a podcast? NPR? I suspect the latter, but I can’t remember who was being interviewed, or even the topic. I’m not even sure what day I heard it. What I do remember, vaguely, is that a man was being interviewed and he talked about expecting the positive from people. He said that he has trust in people and that for the most part, it works out. When his trust is misplaced, he regards that as the tax he pays on the luxury of having a trustful outlook on the world. (Again, I am paraphrasing madly and perhaps erroneously here. If anyone heard this interview, or something resembling it, please chime in and let me know!)

It struck me how liberating living in trust is. To expect that people tend to treat others well. That if you ask for help, you’ll receive it. It even made sense that, on occasion, you’d have to be “taxed” on that. And the toll of living otherwise struck me as well. To live in a fearful, guarded way, expecting others to take advantage, to refuse to help, to treat you badly. I suspect I fall somewhere in-between the two on that continuum, leaning toward trustful, but certainly not fully there.

These ideas lingered with me — albeit vaguely.

Then, early on Monday morning, I was at the gas pump, filling up, en route to the grocery store to buy ingredients for a family brunch. I finished fueling, got back in the car and turned the key.

Nothing.

I laughed and shook my head. Really?

I turned the key again.

Nothing.

I called Triple A and was put on hold. With the phone on speaker, I started to push the car away from the pump toward a parking spot. Which worked great. Until it didn’t.

I looked around. There was a man at the gas pump adjacent to me, just finishing up.

“Excuse me, would you mind helping me push my car over there?” I asked him, pointing to my destination.

“No problem,” he replied. “Do you need a jump?”

“Well, I’ve called Triple A, so I should be okay…” my voice trailed away doubtfully as the droning hold music continued to issue from within the car.

“If I have my jumper cables I’ll be happy to help you out,” he said.

“That would be great,” I said.

A few minutes later I had hung up on Triple A, and we had moved the car into the designated spot. He pulled up next to me, then reached into his back seat and took out a pristine pair of jumper cables. Simultaneously, the opposite back door opened and his son stepped out.

“Thank you so much!” I said to both of them, “I’m so sorry to take up part of your day.”

“No worries! We’ve got the whole day,” the man replied, smiling.

The boy walked to the front of the car. Immediately, his father began explaining.

“So, the yellow is the positive and the black is negative.” He handed the other end of the cables to me. “Make sure to hold those apart,” he said over his shoulder.

Then he went on explaining to his son. Step by step. “This is the battery….” ” You attach these here…”

It was such a natural teaching moment in so many ways. Superficially, he was teaching his son how to jump a stalled car. But more importantly, he was also teaching him to take the time to help others. To be kind. To be helpful. To foster trust.

I thought back to that interview and the idea of regarding people and the world through a lens of trust.

Five minutes later, my car started on the first key turn. We disengaged the cables and I set out to the auto parts store. When I left, after effusive thanks, the man and his son still had their heads bent close together, continuing to explore their car’s engine.

I pulled out of the parking lot, my breakfast plans derailed, my wallet soon to be lighter, with a big smile on my face and a light heart. And I felt myself move along that hypothetical continuum, a bit more toward the trusting side.

And it felt really good.

It’s early morning on the last Tuesday before school gets out for the summer. I’m lying in bed, unsure what woke me. Was it looming last day worries and deadlines? The vague throb of a troublesome tooth breaking through its ibuprofen buffer? Perhaps it was the owls again.

Our home is surrounded by woods, and the barred owls have been especially active recently. We both thrill to hear their song off and on throughout night. Tonight they’ve woken us again and again with their soft calls.

Once, earlier, wanting to share the moment, I’d whispered to Kurt, “Did you hear that?”.

“Yes,” he’d answered softly, and I knew we were both listening together.

Now, hours later, I listen again carefully, hopefully.

Finally, I hear the call. Not the iconic who-cooks-for-you, but a long warbling call.

Whoot.

I hear Kurt’s breathing change as he moves from sleep to listening again. We’re quiet together, waiting for the next call.

Sometimes it’s distant. Sometimes it’s closer. Usually there are only a few calls and then dark silence. I always imagine mighty wing strokes and flight.

Eventually, the owl calls one more time.

Whoot.

For long minutes afterward, I listen. Tuned to the dark.

Kurt’s breathing eases back into sleep.

I’m still wakeful. My mind wanders. My ears strain for the next call.

Later I hear it, faint and far, far away, on the edges of sleep and sound.

And then, as if comforted somehow, I drift back into sleep.