I began writing this on the eve of the Full Moon of August, mostly commonly known as the Sturgeon Moon, but which is also known, among a dozen other names, as the Moon When Cherries Turn Black, Moon of the End of the Fruit Moon, Berries Ripen Even in the Night Moon, Blueberry Moon, and Blackberry Patches Moon.

Photo by Mesha Mittanasala-Unsplash

Clearly, August is all about ripening and I ask you, when has the fig season been so exuberant? When have peaches been as delicious and succulent as this summer? My friend Zoe tells me the peaches are more abundant and juicy this summer because there’s been more sun, less rain (at least here in SoCal). And that begs the question: when has our beloved Earth been more generous or more in danger? Like life itself (it is life itself), a duality, the yin and yang, the yes and no, the possible and the impossible. And we go on doing what we can, when we can.

Photo: Quin Engle, Unsplash

Eating and writing about figs and peaches brought up literary references for me. Devouring one particularly voluptuous, ripe fig, I remembered the scene in Ken Russell’s film, Women in Love. As Hermoine delicately slices a fig at an outdoor picnic, Rupert, says: “The proper way to eat a fig in society, is to split it in four, holding it by the stump and open it, so that it is a glittering, rosy, moist, honeyed, heavy petalled, four petalled, flower. Then, you throw away the skin, after you have taken off the blossom with your lips.” There’s more to this delicious speech in the film but it’s not in the original text of D.H. Lawrence’s once-banned novel on which the film is based. Originally, the lines come from his poem, “Figs,” which goes on to have a bit of a sexist/ageist ending.

Eating peaches, on the other hand, which I have been doing rather a lot of these last weeks of summer, reminded me, as any mention of a peach will, of the line from T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which also speaks of aging, but of oneself, not women.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.
 
Whatever it is about late summer that has me driving with the top down and spitting cherry seeds into the wind, eating mango sorbet from porcelain bowls in bed at night and staying up too late watching old rom-com films, I have to admit, I love it. It is nostalgic and sensuous and feels a little indulgent. But then I say, why not? Summer ends soon enough.