I ought to be in the garden. I need to be in the garden. The tomatoes and the peas need to be picked. I bet there are cucumbers thicker than my wrist dangling on the fence. There is weeding to be done. Under a tree in my back yard is a table full of already-picked tomatoes that need to be scalded, peeled, and canned.
It must be 200 degrees outside.
Why do I keep doing this?
About this time every year, I think about our ancestors, and wonder how they survived. What did people do when they couldn't run to the supermarket for food? When my grandparents were raising their families, they didn't have power tools, electricity, and air-conditioned kitchens. I cannot imagine how they managed to grow enough food to feed a family for the summer, much less preserve enough for the winter. Here it is, the first part of August, and my garden is just starting to produce more than we can eat. A hundred years ago, we'd have starved to death by now, if the vegetable garden was our only source of food.
Bah, this morose train of thought is getting me nowhere. I'd better see to those tomatoes before they spoil.
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