Slobber Dribble and Drool

I remember as a child pulling a red-ripened tomato from the vine in my Grandmother Rebecca Miner’s garden and feeling its firm flesh warmed by the rays of the summer sun. My mouth watered in anticipation of that first bite, wanting the pleasure of the rush of juice trapped inside. I would lick my lips in anticipation of the juice flooding over my taste buds when my teeth finally punctured its smooth skin to release its tang. I was careful to avoid the gush of nectar to keep it from trickling down my chin and leaving a telltale trail on my shirtfront. The spots would tell Gram that I’d been in her garden and the stains would upset my Mother, Sybil Beck.

Also in Gram’s garden grew several large clumps of rhubarb. These mouth-watering treats were planted at the far end of her garden, making it far more difficult to claim the prize without being spotted, but the risk was always worth the scolding. After selecting the stalk I wanted, I would wrest the stem from the plant root. The stem was cool to the touch, being sheltered from the sun by its huge elephant-eared leaves. My mouth is watering now as I recall the taste of the sharply-tart stem as it crunched between my teeth. Rhubarb always lasted longer than eating just one tomato.

I’m not sure if it’s only the recollections of childhood, but it seemed that peaches and plums were always bursting with juice that would trickle down my chin leaving a sweet, sticky rivulet. Of course most times the fruit from my youth was plucked fresh from the fruit trees. Ripened apples, peaches, and plums sometimes released their grasp on the limbs and fell to the ground. Their split skins parted to reveal the savory flesh and the nectar stored inside. I wasn’t the only creature seeking their bounty. Honey bees, ants, and birds of all kinds would join the bounty.

There were times that birds would start their feast while the fruit was still clinging to the tree. Almost as bad as finding a worm in an apple bite was the realization that the large, beautiful apple that I’d spied already had been defiled by the beak of a bird. The spot of devastation was always on the far side of the apple not seen until picked.

I imagine that one day as I age, there may again come a time when the drool, dribble, and slobber will trickle down my chin, but not yet… although I have occasionally found a crumb lodged in my beard.