My daughter, Joy, told me that she’d better not see me writing on my blog that it’s beginning to feel like Fall. So, I’m not, but as the old saying goes, “August is like the Sunday of summer.” There’s no denying that Sunday-night-kind-of-feeling which seeps in around these dog days of summer. And, let’s not talk about how quickly the sun is beginning to go down in the golden hazy skies of August, and slow to get up in the early mornings.
We had NO rain here at the lake in July and our road is dusty, and bushes are beginning to look crispy and red-tinged. We’ve had our first hazy-smokey skies from all the western fires, and we are now on high alert for our own forest fire danger. The air is hot and still, just waiting for something. It makes me think of those Augusts, over 40 years ago now, when two of my babies were born. There is ever-lasting body memory of flopping on the couch in August’s heat, in those last days of pregnancy, with swollen ankles and puffy eyes, and the shades flapping against the windows, the drone of oscillating window fans, and just holding on, for the start of Fall. Waiting. Waiting for the two-plus pitting edema over my shins to disappear, and for wool sweaters and tartan plaids, and for rain dripping through tree branches. Waiting for those babies to arrive. Happy Birthday month to Joy and Sarah!
Other than that, I am hanging on for every last summer day of golden light, and amber waves of grain coiled in round bales across the fields, and the cool silvery blue water in the lake, and the chairs by the water with a glass of wine and summer’s book opened on the table. It’s all really quite grand, isn’t it?