His mother named him Carlos. Such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain.
Summers heavy cloak hung over fields of Goldenrod their long limbs reaching out to mesh with spiky leaves that sheltered bundles of marmalade florets. The invasion of the meadow met with merciless machetes that hacked through the unwelcome invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to extend a pleasant fragrance.
A trail led to an arbor by a trickling brook. Nestled in a stand of trees a precarious trellis bowed heavy with never ending appendages that wound and wove through dense clusters of bulbous translucent nipples clinging tenaciously to their host.
The scent of peppery earth stung the nostrils and attracted white tail deer that ravaged the vines of their treasure. The old man snaked a garden hose through the lattice to frighten them, a guise that worked only to astonish lovers lingering in sacred rendezvous.
Soon the clammy dragons of summer breathed their fiery breath and the skin of the luminous fruit burst with the sweetest nectar. Declared ripe and ready to harvest and process by secret recipe known only to the old man and his son, ruptured with a pestle and filtered, the grapes were transformed and stored in Bell jars, sweet and crisp, underdeveloped but heady and pleasant.
Rarely did my father materialize from his travels once I had been delivered for the summer yet somehow the harvesting of the grapes invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.