Fourteen jars

"I will sing to the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have being. May my meditation be pleasing to him, for I rejoice in the LORD." — Psalm 104:33-34

The kitchen counter has fourteen jars on it and they are still warm.

Tomato sauce. The last of the Rutgers and two of the Brandywines Henry brought last week and a handful of cherry tomatoes that were not going to last another day. I cooked them down this morning the way my mother taught me, which is slowly and with patience and with the windows open because the kitchen gets hot and the steam needs somewhere to go. The jars are lined up and the lids have all sealed and the kitchen smells like August turning into something you can keep.

I have been putting up tomatoes for most of my life. My mother did it. Her mother did it. The women in this town have always done it, every late summer, when the garden gives you more than you can eat and you have to decide whether to let it go or hold it. I hold it. I have always held it. There is something in the work of it that I need, the measuring and the stirring and the pouring and the waiting for the lids to pop, which is the sound that tells you the seal took and the summer is saved.

The garden is winding down. I can say this now without the ache I felt last week. The beans are done. The zinnias are still standing but they are tired. The peppers are holding. The herbs are woody and good. What is left on the vine will come in slowly now, a few tomatoes at a time instead of a bowlful, and I will take what comes and be glad for it.

My mother used to hum while she canned. I do not remember the song. I remember the humming, which was a sound like the kitchen itself was singing, low and steady and satisfied. I was humming this morning and I did not notice until I stopped. The kitchen was warm and the jars were full and the garden had given me what it was going to give and I had held it.

Lord, for what the ground gives and the hands keep, I give thanks.