Grapes on the front yard arbor are ripe – past ripe, when it comes to the Concords, though the nameless white ones that taste just like Concords are mysteriously “just ready,” even though they flowered at exactly the same time. We maxed out on jam years ago, and still have close to a lifetime supply, so we keep meaning to rip out the vines and replace them with table grapes. But nothing can replace the deep garden history that comes with these old troupers, which were probably planted in the 1950’s. And nothing else is likely to be as trouble-free. Result: endless banquets for raccoons and yellow jackets, gifts for any friends who are willing to bother to come and pick.
Meanwhile, the whole yard is fragrant with wine; with the perfume of self-sown nicotiana, and with the almost-cloying sweetness of ripening honey. Cold spring and dry summer didn’t stop the bees – they’ve put in a banner year.