I can hear the clatter and clanking of glass jars, tin rings, kettles, slamming ovens and busy women coming from behind the back door. They’re all there, generations dressed in aprons and kitchen sweat. And they’re having fun, listening to A.M. stations that crackles and shouts the late noon hours.

I’m me, and one of those women belong to me, and I belong to all of them. Every now-and-then, the back door opens and hot jars are set in front of me. It’s my job to stay put, I have to watch for exploders; rising lids fighting science.

The setting sun passes behind the porch’s windows lined with glass shelves holding clear jars. It’s light shines through swimming pears, apricots, plums, applesauces, cherries, peaches, gooseberry preserves, watermelon rinds, pickled vegetables, tomato sauce, mincemeat and blackberry jelly.

As the smell of hot fruit, autumn leaves, and tractor oil wraps around my daydreams, I see sunbeams shooting through jars and pouring out like rainbows and exploding stained glass.