When I was growing up, we had a neighbor on North Towne Drive with a fairly substantial backyard garden. In it he grew the delights of summer and sometimes this homegrown bounty would end up magically appearing on our back deck. Primarily fresh grown tomatoes, with gritty bits of earth still clinging to the sun-ripened skins.
Backyard Farmer Bill grew all things in that backyard of his. He even raised chickens one year in pens back along the treeline of the creek - and hosted the neighborhood in a end of summer chicken barbecue. As a child, I didn't connect that the moist, flame grilled meat had once been the object of my curiosity and affection, or at least as much affection as you can give a chicken who is without remorse when plucking at tender human flesh.
For all the years that we lived on North Towne Drive, Bill and Yvonne's yard sat in the middle of a row of houses that were home to a dozen elementary school aged children. Never did we hear a disparaging remark while using their yard as a gateway to our friends' houses. Sidewalks didn't exist on our street, so we made paths across the bright green grass in games of Ghosts in the Graveyard (a kind of hide & go seek summer passion of ours played in the late evening hours). And sometimes we found ourselves following Bill around as he maintained his lawn, and he patiently let us explore our childhood curiosities.
But there was one fascination of our childhood minds that we believed was forbidden. Along the north side of Bill's backyard grew grapevines. Throughout the summer we would watch these bushes grow into this thick green wall. And as the wall grew, so did the bounty of grapes - fresh, purple globes of juicy goodness, calling to us like sirens. And when we didn't think anyone was looking, we would snatch a few of these precious gems. Plopping them into our mouths, we would peal back the tender sun warmed skins and sink our teeth into the meat of the fruit. The warm tart juices would fill our mouths, the tiny seeds would be captured and spit out and for a moment, we were victors in the war of forbidden pleasures.
And then one day, we were caught, not eating, but plotting a way to capture some of the summer goodness. Backyard Farmer Bill caught our stares upon his summer labors. And I remember clearly the worlds he said that brought the war-mongering to an end.
"You can eat as many grapes as you want - just leave me enough to make a bottle of wine."
And all of a sudden, the forbidden fruits were no longer sweet goodness, but just warm grapes. And in mouths that had once rejoiced and savored the victory, these grapes were more bitter than sweet, warm mush instead of tart bursts of flavor.
And the spoils of war became spoiled by the peace. Forbidden no longer.
