I was walking the Irish Wolfhound tonight with a thousand dark thoughts between my ears. In addition to my dire concerns about my newspaper and its uncertain future , I was thinking about a friend and community member who took his own life over the weekend. We weren’t buddies, but we always talked when we ran into each other, and I am friends with several of his family members. I don’t want to say who it is, but those in our town know.
He was my age, 55. He seemed like a regular guy. He seemed fine.
All this was buzzing around in my head as the Wolfhound dragged me around the patch, past each tree he wanted to mark, taking a break in the shade of the old walnut, around the pond, up toward the garden, when… something beautiful…
My first ripe cantaloupe of the season fell from the vine; real garden cantaloupes pick themselves by falling off when they are ready. I felt so happy that all the nurture I put in my vines all spring and into summer were producing. Vine-ripened cantaloupes might be the most nutritious food I grow in the garden. In the past, the vines didn’t thrive well, and I only got a few fruit, but presently I have quite a few little ones on the vine. It was the last item to ripen in the garden.
It wasn’t a big fruit, so I ate the whole thing, and it was everything I wanted.