There is something oddly comforting about cracked concrete.

What is concrete?

Concrete is the whitish grayish hardish stuff you walk upon, reside under and are surrounded by. In composition, concrete is a slurried mixture of water, aggregate (small rocks and sand) and a glue of various chemicals (the “concrete” from which the name derives) which, when dried, hardened and cured, is of the strong and solid form of a seasoned weight lifter. Much of our modern world leans on and is leant its strength by concrete.

Not always so pervasive, concrete aged slowly.

The first concrete held water. The ancient Nabataeans (Bedouins) of now southern Syria and northern Jordan discovered how to make a concrete some 8,500 years ago (6500 BC). That first use was limited. The desert dwellers constructed underground cisterns of a waterproof concrete of their special making, and they kept the location of their water supplies a company secret. Those hidden basins may be the one big reason the Nabataea traders thrived in the dry lands while others and their wares faded and were lost from view.

The Greeks elevated the process some 3,300 years ago (1400 to 1200 BC), employing concrete in their royal palaces and other edifices of note.

The Romans took the whole concrete thing to a new level. From 300 BC to almost 500 AD (a span approaching 800 years), Roman engineers went on a worldwide concrete-building spree: roads, aqueducts, bridges, huts, houses and hotels. You name it, the Roman built it with concrete. The Coliseum in Rome is largely concrete, and the dome of the Pantheon in Rome is still the largest unreinforced concrete dome on the planet — if not in the solar system and the space beyond.

Then, as concrete does, it cracked and started to come apart.

With the fall of the Roman Empire around 476 AD, the technological know-how to mix, make and manage concrete was lost to the Dark Ages.

And, during that time, the cracks begin to travel.

A crack is a curious thing. It is “a line on the surface of something along which that something splits without breaking into separate parts.” With time and inattention, the line separates farther and becomes an empty space. Without the knowledge to repair itself, things become “Lost in Space” as the Robinson Family did in their first TV episode in 1965. Space separates. A gap appears and widens to a hole.

From line to space to gap to hole, our world fragmented and lost its original identity. Many things crumbled and were lost. Yet, the human spirit is a resilient thing.

Politicians appeared.

On stumps, they pointed and argued: “Are all cracks connected?” “Is there a conspiracy of cracks and dirt?” they queried. It was an election year. “What’s around the corner?” they warned. And the new old tune that plays so well: “Change is needed!”

It was, and it was a long-winded race.

Until finally, about the mid-18^th Century, concrete was rediscovered and reapplied. Our world hardened and was revitalized.

Many blame the politicians for many things; but they, for their part, did their part. They kept the dialogue going through the worst of times; and, in that way, it was perhaps the best of times. We waited, and for our wait, there was the return of concrete.

Yes, there is something oddly comforting about cracked concrete.

Even, if not especially, in an election year.

Grandpa Jim

“The Book Thief” is a 2013 film that follows a young German girl from the borrowing of her first book at the graveside of her little brother, through her formative years in a backwater German town whose citizens fight a minute-to-minute battle to survive World War II, to the start of the writing of her first book in the basement and the loss of her family upstairs and her closest friend next door.

My favorite line is a response voiced twice in the movie: “It wasn’t always mine.”

Her new Papa asks her if the “The Gravedigger’s Manual” (the first of the line of her borrowed books) “is yours?” Later, the young girl asks the refugee hiding in the house if the book he carries is “your book?”

On each occasion, the response is the same: “It wasn’t always mine.”

It wasn’t always mine. Two books. Borrowed.

Two thieves?

Books have been with us for a long time.

The definition of “book” on the Internet is: “A written or printed work consisting of pages glued or sewn together along one side and bound in covers.” Today, we have e-books you can read on hand-held, pad and tablet. We have recorded books for playback and listen-up. None of these meet the Internet “bound” definition, but they are nonetheless “books” and equally enjoyed for the boundless stories they present.

The first book ever written may be “The Epic of Gilgamesh.” That book didn’t meet the Internet definition either. King Gilgamesh of Sumeria and his amazing adventures were recorded in cuneiform writing (chiseled wedge-shaped characters) on clay tablets. The oldest fragments of this first written story date to around 2100 BC — roughly 4,000 years ago.

That was the first “book.”

Who was the first “thief?”

By the way, a “thief” is defined on the Internet as “a person who steals another person’s property, especially by stealth and without using force or violence.” Today, most thieves, unlike many books, would probably slip within the Internet definition.

The first thief is in the book most often guessed to be the oldest book. The Bible is not the oldest written story – though many believe it to be. The Bible is old. The oldest section of the Bible is the book of Job. The sufferings of Job were likely scribed around 600 BC – some 2,700 years back from the future.

Retuning to the Bible and the first theft, in the first book of Genesis, the third chapter, the text reads: “She took some and ate it.” That was Eve, the wife of Adam, plucking fruit, at the Serpent’s suggestion, from the forbidden tree in the middle of the Garden of Eden. “She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it.” There you have it! The first theft was committed by Adam and Eve as co-perpetrators.

Though it was recorded later in time in the book of Genesis than the earlier writing of the Gilgamesh saga, the story in the Garden had to have occurred at an earlier point. Adam and Eve were Gilgamesh’s first parents and necessarily older — if not much older.

Interestingly, the scene of the first crime, the Garden of Eden, may be at the same general location as that of the first book. Gilgamesh’s Sumeria and Eve’s Eden are thought to have been situated somewhere between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers in what is modern-day Iraq. There, King Gilgamesh ruled in the City of Uruk around 2700 BC (almost 5,000 years ago), long before his story was first chiseled into clay. This suggests that the written story was itself pilfered from a much older oral tradition, as was the theft of Adam and Eve, which necessarily was taken from an even older oral tradition.

We see, then, that the first story in the first written book wasn’t always the author’s: The writer borrowed Gilgamesh from another more ancient source.

We see, also, that the first thing taken in the oldest story wasn’t always the thieves’: Adam and Eve borrowed the fruit from another more ancient source. In turn, we see that the story of the theft was itself appropriated from an older tale of another’s first telling.

Like the borrowings of the little girl and the refugee in “The Book Thief,” the story of the first book and the story of the first theft appear to have similar origins: “It wasn’t always mine.”

In all the cases, the response is to something borrowed from someone else that by the act of the borrowing changed completely the course of things to come.

Perhaps, there is little that is truly ours, most is borrowed, what we have wasn’t always mine, and by the actions of our transfer we have become involved and, to some extent, accountable for what did and will happen?

Grandpa Jim

It’s all right to have a different opinion,

To have different thoughts and

See things differently:

To be different.

“Different” is itself a curious word.

It means “not the same as another or each other.”

We all were, are and will be — at one time or another — different.

On one side, my relatives came from Ireland to Iowa. On the other, they came from Germany and Poland to Minnesota. They were immigrants, and they were not the same as the others already here or each other arriving. They were different. In their difference, there was the strength and the drive to do well and make a better life for their children. I think it is very much the same today – here and around the world.

Few things stay the same for long.

Differences ensure this is so.

And angels are different.

No two pictures are

Exactly the same:

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No one knows for sure if they’ve seen an angel, but there seems to be common agreement that we’ve all encountered them. We didn’t know it at the time, and we wondered about it afterward.

Who was that person who helped start my car in the rain that cold, dark night? Where did that food come from? How come the washing machine just started working again? Why do I feel so good – it was just a smile from that person across the way – where did he go? Or was it “she”?

Could it have been an angel or something else?

And do angels have their own sidekicks?

The “Secret Sloth Police” is an organization of no known notoriety. If they exist (and I can’t say they do), they may be using their difference as a cover. It is generally thought that sloths are quite easy going and slow to move.

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“A perfect camouflage,” you might say, “like the old-fashioned comic Superman.” When called to help, does the sloth do a “quick-change” in the zoo locker room, emerge in dull-gray tights with a large “S” on the chest, and flash off to the aid of a needy person — under the watchful wink of an eye of that angel we weren’t sure we saw over there.

Differences are often the camouflage that hide something deeper within.

Where we least expect help is often where help is to be found.

We find here another curiosity of the human condition:

With our difference, there is always doubt.

Doubt is a distinctly human trait,

Which seems somehow

Imbedded in our

Differences.

The following excerpt is from a short story entitled “Angels Aplenty” in “98.6 (95 Stories),” a collection of 98.6 stories I wrote in 1995 and which has never been published (the person speaking is an angel):

“Angels don’t doubt. Another thing, like stringed instruments, we don’t carry. Of all that we see in you, it is the doubt we do not understand that saddens up most and brings us our greatest joy. You carry a thing no Angel could bear. A difference so great, we serve with quiet purpose.”

A difference so great even the angels are amazed.

I guess that’s what it means to be human:

To live in our differences and always

Cling to doubts that make us

Each distinctly human.

* * *

The story’s final line —

“Humans have always been a mystery.”

Grandpa Jim

“’To bee or not to bee?’ that is the question.”

It is a question older than Hamlet and Shakespeare.

On a cave wall in what is now Spain, 15,000 years ago an ancient bee seeker lifted his stung hand, winched, and drew a picture of the smoke that had routed the bees from their home and its comb. Oh, that honey was sweet, the injured artist thought, but those bees were so wild.

The ancient Egyptians were the first to settle down that wildness. From feral to domesticated, the bees of the Nile became day laborers to the rulers of the delta. Hives and beekeepers illuminate the tombs of the kings, and jars of honey were placed close by the sarcophagus of the boy king, Tutankhamen, for energy on his way.

It is for that energy that the worker bees gather the pollen baskets on their legs.

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With that pollen, the laborers fly back to their hives to make the honey to feed their young. Then, they fly out and back again and again and again. The lives of the pollinators are busy and short, but so important to so many more than the bees.

Buzzing into flower-bearing plants, the busy bees are dusted with pollen from the anthers (male parts of the plants), back up, buzz again, and rub some of that pollen onto the stigmas (the female parts of the plants). Without knowing what they have done, the bees have fertilized the plant. Now, the fruit and vegetables can form, be harvested and eventually find their way to our tables to fill our stomachs. In a very real sense, we owe our meals to the hard-working bees.

These days, there are fewer feral or wild bees. By 2006, free bees had almost disappeared from the United States. Lucky for us, there were the Egyptians and the contract bees they first bred. That heritage continues today. From the efforts that begun on the Nile so long ago, we have modern beekeepers, sophisticated hives, contract pollinators and surplus honey.

A relative just harvested 54 pounds of honey from her backyard. That took a lot of work and a lot of bees.

My heart goes out to the buzzing bees that sweat and fly to mine the pollen for the company hive, and I find myself humming an old song to a new set of lyrics:

Some people say a bee is made out of air.

A poor bee’s made outa muscle and buzz.

You load 54 pounds, what do you get?

Another day older and no time to rest.

Saint Peter don’t you call me ‘cause I can’t go;

I owe my bee soul to the company hive . . ..

In 1955, Ernest Jennings Ford, aka “Tennessee Ernie Ford,” sang about “Sixteen Tons” of coal and the day-to-day flight of the miners to the company store. That song was ten weeks at the top of the country charts and eight as number one on the pop charts. The crossover is remembered as Ford’s signature song. It is a tune about the everyday worker who never stops, always keeps going and spends his or her life for others.

That is what the unnoticed bees do for their families and for all of us.

Give a listen to an old song — with a new friend in mind.

Grandpa Jim

A pickle was a cucumber.

This is cucumber in a clump of cumbers

It all started somewhere in India 5,000 or more years ago.

There the first cucumber of all the cucumbers grew on its lowly vine.

A smallish greenish inconspicuous gourd, it formed on the string and ripened.

“What is it, Mommy?” the child asked.

“I don’t know,” the mother answered. “Let’s send it away.”

And . . . so they did.

The gourd began its journey from a cucumber to a pickle.

In the ancient Sumerian legend of King Gilgamesh, note is taken of citizens consuming cucumbers. The Roman historian, Pliny the Elder, observes that the ancient Greeks enjoyed growing cucumbers; and his own emperor, Tiberius, served hot-house-grown cucumbers to his guests summer or winter. (What the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets.) Charlemagne, the King of the Franks and later an emperor himself, insisted on cucumbers in his gardens during the end of the Eighth and beginning of the Ninth centuries (What the Emperor wants, the Emperor gets); and Columbus brought the green gourd along with him and the crew on their first visits the new world.

Or . . . was that a barrel of pickles?

Pickles travel better and farther than cucumbers because pickles are preserved cucumbers. Dipped in solutions of salt (sodium chloride) and/or vinegar (acetic acid) and often flavored with various spices (dill is a favorite of mine with a jalapeno or two for “kick”), the cucumber changes and becomes something entirely new. It becomes the pickle. In making the transition, the cucumber acquires the sour taste and crisp disposition that are so distinctly “pickle.”

No one knows for sure when the first person dropped a cucumber into that first briny solution, waited, pulled out what the cucumber had miraculously become, and crunched the first bite of a pickled cucumber. The long line of pickles had begun.

The pickle timeline suggests the first pickle appeared in Mesopotamia, modern Iraq, some 4,500 years ago. It hasn’t been the same since. Aristotle praised the healing effects of cured cucumbers. Julius Caesar fed pickles to his troops. Cleopatra attributed her good looks to pickles. Queen Elizabeth liked them, and Shakespeare wrote about them. James Mason designed and patented the first “Mason” jar to process pickles. Heinz, a new company, introduced the pickle pin at the Chicago World’s Fair. The Pickle Packers association was founded for workers in the pickling trades. (How fast can you pack a peck of pickled peppers?) The first annual Pickle Day was celebrated in New York City in 2001, and 5,200,000 pounds of pickles are consumed annually in the USA — nine pounds per person.

I have personally watched in wonder the cucumber in its glass jar of warm brine solution loose its bright green color. I have gazed wide-eyed as the bright green of the cucumber leached out like green threads into the solution and left behind the dulled but determined shape and color of the resilient and robust pickle. I have waited patiently for the pickles in their jars to age, grow to maturity and proclaim their readiness; and I have eagerly searched the pantry for that last jar from the farm.

Above and below, the dill has always been a trusted friend.

A new favorite to the table is the Kvasenaky dill. My first Kvasenaky hailed from the Czech farmlands to the south. I have since found them in hidden grocery coolers — they must be refrigerated. There is no vinegar in a Kvaseney — just salt, water and the big cucumbers that won’t fit into the regular jars. You need big jars, and the wait is shorter. Kvasenaky dills are done in days, and they are oh so good – for a big salty farm pickle.

Of course, to honor Old Dave and Ciddy, who introduced the hamburger to the world at the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904, we have the hamburger dill chip. No burger is at home without a generous helping of these chips.

There you have it.

From cucumber to pickle.

Over five millennia and crunching.

The world has long appreciated the green gourds,

And the pickles who rise from the briny waters to their glory!!!!

Grandpa Jim

I looked down and saw this.

A praying mantis.

When their forelimbs are folded, mantises look as if they’re praying. This one looks to be a young insect who looks more interested in looking around than praying. Things may change with time.

Mantises have been around for a long time. Over 2,300 years ago, the Chinese described the Mantis in the Erya, one of the oldest of their dictionaries. It wasn’t until 1838, however, that the praying insect was knighted the “mantis.” In that year, the German entomologist Hermann Burmeister was observing the insect in prayer with those big eyes and thoughtful turn of the head. Hermann thought to himself, “What is that little fellow seeing? That’s it, he’s a seer, a prophet. He’s looking into the future. I will call you ‘mantis’ for the Greek word for prophet or seer, because that is what you are.” The name stuck. The praying insect became the praying mantis.

Praying mantises are predators, pretty ferocious predators. There is a story of a large mantis taking on a gecko in an even match. Because of this predatory behavior, a eggcorn resulted. To the linguistic realm, “eggcorn” is a relatively new addition. In September 2003, the linguist Geoffrey Pullum, now at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland, invented the term for the diction of a woman who substituted the word “egg corn” for “acorn.” She saw a egg-corn acorn and said “egg corn.” The words sounded alike and meant the same nut to her, and she didn’t even notice she’d made the linguistic switch-up. That’s what happened with our pugilistic praying insect. A child saw a mantis chasing another insect and screamed, “Mommy, Mommy, look, a preying mantis.” An eggcorn was born as the mantis sought its prey.

People, like mantises, seek their prey, the good life; and, like mantises, we often pray to achieve that life.

Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is a measure of the good life of a country and its people. The top four countries or regions currently with the highest GDP are: 1. European Union, 2. United States, 3. China, and 4. Japan. With time, the names will change as others chase to the top and excel at what they’re doing. To do that, three things are required: 1. People (the more the merrier), 2. Ideas (the more the merrier), and 3. Laws (just enough and not too many). People (domestic and foreign) are a measure of demand — the available consumptive power. Ideas are a measure of supply — new ideas create new and better products. Laws (here and there) are a measure of market — the friendliness and compatibility of the working environment. To grow the gross, all three are required.

There are some great new ideas at work out there today. Perhaps the top three for our current “now” are: 1. The Internet of Things; 2. Big Data being generated by the Internet of Things; and 3. New Ideas and New Products from the Big Data being generated by the Internet of Things. These are truly exciting times.

The trick is to keep your eye on the target. You know you’re lined up when you see the black spot. See it there on the praying mantis’ eye.

That’s the “pseudo-pupil.” It’s not a pupil at all. It is the exact spot on the eye that is looking right back at you and saying, “I see you.” The mantis is fully focused and is directly absorbing your incident light. When that alignment occurs, the black spot appears to signal “on target.” You begin to see why the mantis is so effective at what it does. Preying and praying, the mantis keeps it focus on target.

Grandpa Jim

This is not India, but the crape myrtles are blooming away anyway and everywhere.

The crape myrtle originated in India; but, of the fifty United States, the crape myrtle prefers Texas. It’s the summer climate: often dry and always hot. That suits the myrtle.

The crape grows as a plant, a bush, a tree or anyway and everywhere you want it to grow, and it blooms and blooms through the heat where all else would droop and wilt. Stand under a crape myrtle. Go ahead. Stand there. What do you feel? Water. Tiny drops of cool water.

Crape myrtles transpire H2O. Transpiration is the process of water moving up from the roots and evaporating from the leaves. It’s a cooling process, like a swamp cooler. A swamp cooler is an air conditioner that blows air through a fall of water to cool the air. Crape myrtles are built like swamp coolers. Water moves up from the roots and drops from the leaves; the natural breezes blow through the falling water; the temperature drops and the crape myrtle sighs a happy air-conditioned camper sigh of relief. Summertime is good in Texas for the crape, and its crinkly paper-like blooms lighten and enliven the long hot days.

Summertime and the livin’ is easy

Crapes are bloomin’ and reachin’ for the sky

Your skins fine tannin’ and you’re too good-lookin’

So hush little baby. Don’t you cry.

I did, once, sorta’ — cry.

I remembered while I was following the fallen crape blooms floating on the water.

I was in the basement and I was singing: “Bread Upon The Waters! Bread Upon the Waters!” Over and over again. At the top of my lungs. I was shouting the words.

I didn’t know I was screaming a part of the first verse of Chapter 11 of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes. I was a kid. I had been banished to the basement to clean the basement. I didn’t like it. So, I behaved badly. While taking the broom from the hand pointed to the basement door, I heard the frustrated voice above say seriously — to me: “Bread upon the waters.”

I wasn’t wise. I wanted my freedoms. I wanted to play. I didn’t know what bread upon the waters meant, but I was sure going to let the powers upstairs know that it was a two-way stream. Give it to me and I’ll give it right back.

Which, in a way, is — I guess — what it sorta’ means: You get what you give.

What you send out has its ways of floating back on home.

Send out good and good seems to show up.

Don’t — you clean the basement.

That took awhile to figure.

And, I’m still workin’.

I sure hope those squirrels get their bread upon the waters.

This was the last tomato, the last green Samurai.

Behind the nylon mesh and metal stakes, it had survived weeks of constant attack. All the others of its kind had fallen and been dragged through holes in the fortifications. This was the lone survivor of the brave band.

I woke to see the fattest of the squirrels, last tomato in mouth, clamber up the fence and disappear from sight.

SQUIRRELS WON!

Homeowners none . . .

It is at times like these that I want to shout at the top of my lungs: “Bread Upon The Waters!!!!!!”

Alas, I will stand under the crape myrtle, enjoy the comforts of its cooling waters and the beauty of its pretty blooms, and — between the tears — remember the song.

Summertime and the livin’ is easy

So hush little baby. Don’t you cry.

Grandpa Jim

This is not a mermaid.

This is a manatee.

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For thousands of years, sailors on the open seas have reported the sighting of mermaids. In fourteen hundred and ninety-two while himself sailing upon the ocean blue, Christopher Columbus lifted his spy glass and exclaimed, “Mermaid Ho!!!” He was mistaken. It was not the long hair of a pretty girl with a fish’s tail washing through the waves. It was likely the long shape of a sea cow searching for a salad to munch for lunch. Chris had discovered the Americas and manatees.

Manatees are the long-lost relatives of elephants who went for a swim, developed flippers and decided to live their lives under the sea.

Under the sea. Under the sea. Down where its better. Down where it’s wetter. Take it from a Manatee. Maybe a Little Mermaid you’ll see. Under the sea.

There was nice Caribbean lilt to Sebastian’s animated critique of the world above the waves. The manatees were listening and so they have stayed — under the surface, largely hidden from human view.

In three submerged corners of the Earth you’ll find them: 1) the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico; 2) the Amazon Basin; and 3) the rivers and coast of West Africa. At times, they become footloose and travel. In 2006, a manatee visited New York City. There were no tickets to the play, and the water was too cold. So, the manatee headed home. Morning commuters on the Staten Island Ferry cell-phoned pictures of a mermaid heading south. It’s been a common mistake for millennia.

Three thousand years ago, the ancient Assyrians placed mermaids on their coins. If only they had known. A manatee would not have fit.

The seas abound with tales. Beneath the waves, tails are hard to distinguish. With bubble and foam, it can be dizzying — even for a Disney.

A manatee could be another protective friend, like a cautious crab. The manatee could be using its form, like Sebastian used his voice, to divert, dissuade and deflect a little mermaid from a perilous journey to a less friendly place of bright sun and dry land. There are protections under the sea that can be lost above.

Is it manatee a mermaid, or manatee and mermaid?

Take a look and see for yourself.

Under the sea.

Grandpa Jim

After the rain.

In the picture above, a single soaked Mexican heather bloom shines and dries in the sun after an inundation of early June.

Now, it’s hot, dry and very green. The heather is basking in the heat and growing like a weed.

Summer weather is upon us – arriving right on calendar time, but late by a couple of months for this part of Texas. We have yet to experience a 100-degree-Fahrenheit (37.8-Centigrade) day. By this time in summer, we’re usually busting the century mark like popcorn popping in the hot pan.

Speaking of corn, how are things down on the farm?

I just called and Uncle Joe says most of the wheat has finally been harvested. He’s still helping to cut a neighbor’s field here and there. Joe’s wheat is in; and he says it’s looking pretty good – considering all the wet. With the wait, the individual grains are lighter and drier than normal, which keeps the bushel weight down; but there are not too many sprouts from the wet grains starting to grow on the stalks, which is good. So, “not bad,” considering.

Next up is the milo, which is also called sorghum. Joe says it’s looking pretty good — if the bugs will stay out. He may have to spray. The milo harvest should start in 2 to 3 weeks.

Corn is short this year. Standing about 6 foot, taller on the better land. Ears are formed and growing. The corn harvest should begin around the end of July or early August. Standing water has claimed a lot of land. The corn never sprouted in the flooded parts of the fields. It was drowned out. Even with the water losses, the crop should be about average.

Last and hottest is the cotton. Quite a few farmers couldn’t get into the wet fields, and their cotton never got planted. Uncle Joe was able to plant his. Cotton loves the hot, and Joe says what’s out there is looking pretty good.

Overall, considering we are now at twice the average rainfall in these parts of Texas, I’d say the crops are doing remarkably well.

We didn’t talk peaches.

This is a picture from down at the farm out the back door. The peach time-of-year is upon us. Just the other day I saw a Peach Festival advertised in a magazine for a county-seat somewhere out there in Texas. That was an alert, and I’ll start looking in the grocery for those yellowish orangish fuzzy little fruits.

Men and women have grown peaches on peach trees for over 4,000 years. Cultivation began in China, where kings and emperors favored the fruit. From there, the peach traveled to Persia, where Alexander the Great reached down form his horse for one of those luscious little globes. Smacking his lips and smitten, the conqueror turned his steed around and galloped back to Europe — the peach held high in hand. After the peach conquered that continent, Spanish explorers brought the peach to the Americas, and two more continents fell to the flavorful fruit.

It took a while, but the peach has traveled around the world, and there it remains to the joy of men and women of every nationality and culinary disposition.

Hooray the peach!

Sing with me:

Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie

Who’s not ready? Holler “I”

Let’s all play hide and seek

Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie

Who’s not ready? Holler “I”

Let’s all play hide and seek

Wow, that’s zippier than my favorite polka version by the Dujka Brothers from the Blue Bell Ice Cream lands near Brenham, Texas, but it is a delightful musical use of the peach and a well-played tune at weddings — including ours.

Summer does have its advantages — once the rains stop, the crops get going and the music starts playing.

Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie.

Grandpa Jim

Gaillardia pulchella

Another name is “Indian blanket.”

The bloom appeared this morning. Summer solstice is near. In the Northern Hemisphere, June 21, 2015 is the longest day of the year. Solstice means sun (sol) stop (stice). On that day, the sun here stands still in the sky and then begins its long slow inexorable retreat back to the south, leaving cooler times behind.

But, not now. Not yet. Now are the days of the sun.

Beside the roads and in the fields, Indian blankets wave their colors to announce the heat. This flower loves the hot weather. With the rising temperatures, Indian blanketflowers unfurl across the Lone Star landscape, crowning each day in a firewheel of sundance color.

While, in the shade, the last of the quiet pinks bloom and sway in the lite summer breeze.

A phlox, I think. This one defies precise description. I cannot find it exactly pictured on the pages of my wildflower manual. For me, it is “phlox” for its resemblance to my favorite springtime wildflower. On Highway 71 just outside Smithville beginning the climb into the Lost Pines and on to Bastrop, the soil on the sloughing hillsides changes and turns a reddish tint. There, in the shade, I see the wild phlox as I race by on my drive to Austin. The ones you see here are, I think, friends to those, if not close related. Here, they are the last to pass in spring as we speed for summer.

And, Citrullus lanatus.

The watermelon.

Watermelon is the quintessential summer fruit. I say this with respect for its edible berry. The exterior rind is hard and smooth, often with the dark green stripes you see here. Insides are juicy and sweet, usually a red to pink color, replacing in shades our fading phlox. Seeds are within, offering entertainment to children on a summer’s eve.

Old as the Pharaohs and young as tonight, the watermelon is to all lands a delight and distraction whatever the latitude it holds in sway.

That was a bit of whimsy from a place appearing not so hot as that of our Gaillardia pulchella, one more in temperament with the pink phlox, hills and dales that may with waning sun wish the warmth of an Indian Blanket, faraway lands dancing in the light tune and sway of their own watermelons, and, for that, close indeed to us and ours.

Happy Summer, wherever you may be and whatever the weather.

There’s always fun to be found close by.

Watermelon.

Grandpa Jim