Harvest Time

There is something about September. The days, no matter how hot, take on a different hue. The sun is at a new angle, hinting at the cooler air to come, and the sky is a sparkling blue. Even clouds have more personality, more texture. It is a month of random clothing changes. The morning jeans and sweatshirts quickly give way to summer's comfort as the sun warms the day to remind us it is still summer. Let the sun go down, though, and suddenly Friday night football games, bonfires, and hot tea are perfectly acceptable.

The calendar pushes past Labor Day, the kids are well settled back in school, and the morning mist takes on the crispness and clarity which speaks to something in my heart. I hear the call of a bountiful harvest, and feel a need to savor the earth's abundance by "putting up" for the long, cold months ahead. On Thursday, the pull to the Farmer's Market was strong enough to override everything else on my to-do list, and I found myself wandering from one tent to the next, discussing the merits of Roma's, Beefsteaks, and Pink Posy heirlooms, sampling the tart sweetness of a Damson plum, delighting in the velvet fuzz on the perfect southern peach. There were peppers, still a few zucchini and yellow squash, and just the beginnings of field squash, pumpkins, and the first crunchy apples of the season. I came home with boxes and baskets and bags, my mind delighting in the plans for salsas and sauces, jams and jellies, relishes and sweet baked treats. My heart was lighter, anticipating the sparkling rows of jars, the sun catching the jewel-toned treats and sending their rainbow prisms dancing onto the walls like fairies in a grand parade.

The annual rite of preserving and canning used to be one of necessity for those whose toil was the only way to nourish a family through a harsh winter. Now, we have modern manufacturing to bring almost any food from farm to processing to table. Sure, I can run to Kroger on any cold, gray January day and find shelf after shelf of tomatoes, or beans, or pears. But when I take a Mason jar from my pantry shelf, and pop the seal on the labor of love from my own kitchen, I not only get the fresh taste of a Kentucky summer, but I think a whole lot of harvest sunshine drifts out of that jar and right back into my heart.