“Summer is for growin’,” my Grandpa Williams used to say—generally when we were in his garden.

My grandparents, along with a maiden aunt, lived up the street, less than a block away. I spent nearly as much time there as at home.

Grandpa’s garden was huge, occupying almost the entirety of two side lots. Everything was planted in neat, well-tended rows. String beans, a dozen varieties of tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, cabbage, okra, peas, onions, potatoes, yams, melons, plus several rows of sweet corn.

As a kid, I liked to plop myself down between the rows and nibble on whatever struck my fancy. I was particularly fond of carrots. But I lacked the patience to wait for them to grow… much to Grandpa’s amused consternation. He knew if he couldn’t convince me to give them time, I’d pull up the too-young plants before their orange roots had grown an inch long and the diameter of a pencil!

In hopes of dissuading me from premature sampling, he chose to teach and reason, hoping to instill restraint along with perspective.

“When it comes to gardens and growing things,” he’d say, “spring is for planting… summer is for growin’… and fall is when we harvest.”

Grandpa would grin at me.

“Good things like carrots take time, Jimmy-Boy. Their seeds germinate and come up, but summer is when all the real work gets done—and that takes time, slow and steady, to do the job and become their tastiest best. Then, come fall, we’ll get to enjoy all that goodness.”

I can’t say Grandpa’s educational attempt was wholly effective, but it usually served to deter me for a month or so, and doubtless saved a significant portion of that year’s carrot crop.

I’ve also come to realize his gentle words of wisdom apply, not only to gardens and seasons, but the outdoors and nature in general—and also life itself, including small boys.

Time and patience have no substitutes.

There’s more to summer than merely a new seasonal name. While spring may be all about life and energy, birth and resurrection, a land reclaimed and a world restarted—summer is where the real effort begins, a progressive transformation of miracle into growth. It requires the needed time to settle down and go to work.

Slow and steady are the new seasonal watchwords.

Robins still cheerily greet the dawn and fill twilight’s gathering shadows with their melodious evensong. But there’s not nearly the day-long avian chorus of earlier weeks. The more distinctive midday sound is now the hum of bees and the buzz of cicadas.

Leaves are lush and green, still looking new, but now more of a monotone hue. The shade from their thick canopy gives cool darkness and a welcome refuge from a sun which all of a sudden is both hotter and brighter.

Summer days are long.

Dawn often begins in a glowing, gauzy mist with diamond sparkles in the grass. A soft hush falls on rivers and streams—a peaceful quiet that early fishermen know often belies awaiting action.

The midday hours stretch their definitions, starting not long after the rising sun has cleared a hand’s width above the treetops and continuing until it reaches a similar point on the far side of the afternoon. Heat builds, drying the air, becoming a force to be reckoned with should you decide to take a walk or work in the yard.

Sometimes after noon, thunder occasionally mutters in the west. These threats can become real; storms that materialize in a brief but dramatic show of light and sound—slashing and flashing, booming and crashing—yet leaving a drenching more refreshing than worrisome in their wake.

Dusk comes late and lingers. Swallows chitter and swoop, bats twist and turn. The air cools in a contented sigh. As darkness deepens, frogs harrump along the creek while fireflies above the meadow out-twinkle the stars.

Nights are sultry, the moist air rich with sweet nicotiana, perhaps aided with the day’s honeyed mix of clover and milkweed, or minty with a hint of bergamot.

Though I’d have to have a helping hand to get back upright afterward, I’d give anything to once again be able to sit on my rear in the tilled earth of Grandpa’s garden—and to pull and eat a crunchy sweet carrot, or one of those wonderful heirloom tomatoes he grew with their old-timey names: Kentucky Traveler, Brandywine Red, Cherokee Purple, Mortgage Lifter, Long Tom, Purple Calabash, Sweet Million.

Colors ranged from pink to yellow, orange, gold, crimson, scarlet, and various purples, including one the near-black shade of a dark bruise. Some were striped, patterns straight from Dr. Seuss: red-and-green, yellow-and-purple, emerald-and-vermilion-and-tangerine. Tomatoes ranging from the size of shooter marbles to doubled-fists!

You’ve never eaten a real tomato until you’ve chomped down on a juicy just-picked, sun-warmed Yellow Perfection or a weighty Stump Of The World.

Summer is here—and it’s here to get things done and carry us, slow and steady, all the way to autumn’s bountiful rewards.

Have patience, savor the journey…enjoy!

Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].