THE POSTSCRIPT, Carrie Classon

As far as I know, most of my people were farmers. On both my parents’ sides, my Scandinavian ancestors came across the ocean looking for better topsoil. I know immigrants came for many reasons — to start businesses and escape oppression and to avoid starvation. But, as far as I know, my ancestors were in search of better dirt. And they found it. A full foot of topsoil was a treasure beyond measure to these farmers who had tried to make a living on rocky soil.

Perhaps it is why I am not a gardener. I suspect I have a lot of my ancestors still in me. Perhaps I am rebelling against the work that was in my family’s life blood. But however I might feel about planting and weeding, I think there is something within me that recognizes the cycles of the seasons, the coming of summer and the pause that comes in the middle of the summer.

Every year, I try to celebrate the summer solstice. I start a new journal. I read my journal from the last six months. I take a long walk late in the evening. I try to make note of the fact that this is the longest day of the year to be more mindful of the passage of time. And since I grew up in a northern state, I always felt I should take advantage of the short, warm months.

It only occurred to me this year that the summer might be a good time to rest.

The seeds are in the ground. The harvest is months away. While a farmer never had the luxury of idleness, it is too late to do any more planting, this time of year. There comes a point when we have done all we can do, and we must wait for the harvest.

“Will you pick my raspberries?” my sister asked.

“Can I eat some of them?”

“Of course!”

“Then yes, I certainly will.”

My sister is going to Argentina with her husband and her son to meet her daughter, Isabelle, who has been working there for the past year. They will have a terrific time, with Isabelle as a tour guide. They will see a lot and do a lot and make amazing memories.

My sister is a teacher. She grabs the summer with a gusto that astonishes me every year. She flies out the door on the first day that school is out with more plans and activities than I would attempt in many months. She is a flurry of camping and gardening and traveling and home improvement, and she can never believe how soon September rolls around.

Meanwhile, I have no plans to go anywhere except “up north” to visit my parents all summer long. And I am not at all unhappy about it.

Because I finally realized that, for me, the summer is not about getting busier. The spring was busy. The fall will be busier. This time — right as the serious heat sets in and the first of the berries are ripe — this time is a good time to pause.

It’s not a long rest. We all know the harvest is coming.

But I am taking a moment to enjoy the summer’s heat. I feel the days are already growing shorter and the season will change before I know it, and it will be hard to remember what it felt like when I walked in the late evening and the air was still warm and heavy.

I’ll pick my sister’s raspberries, and I’ll eat more than a few.

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