August

 

August has been sweltering with the evenings so hot and humid it makes you wonder how people survived back in the day without air conditioning or even electricity for a fan. With no breeze to shed a little mercy and so calm and still that the candle on the back porch stands straight up without a flicker with its only threat to being snuffed out is the humidity. I imagine that the people who pioneered to California didn’t really go there for the gold; they went there to go to the beach and wear swimming suits and flip-flops. Gold was just a secondary motivation that they hoped would pay for their trip once they got there.

August is the month that puts an end to whatever ambition you may have had to keep the garden weeded or to finally paint the trim around the eves or straighten up that mailbox post. August is the month when we let things go. We’re tired now and an afternoon nap in front of the fan seems like good common sense. Just one more reason this letter is late in getting out.

Once I was proud of my garden and now I don’t care. It’s kind of like turning old. Youth is proud, vain and full of ambition then August arrives and saps you of strength and zeal. The weeds grow in the garden now like hair in an old mans ears; he doesn’t care anymore and neither do I.

I putter around my tomatoes and peppers, picking here and there while watermelon spreads through the tall grass and weeds. It’s about time to plant lettuce for the cool weather soon to come.

September is waiting just next door with its melancholy breezes to break the siege of heat.

This summer has been full of visitors and we have done more floating, been to more BBQ’s, and did more sight seeing than the previous two years put together.

It has been two and a half years since we have arrived here and we have finally made the transition to this being home. It’s not just home because our TV sits in the corner, it’s home because it feels like home. With all of the loving hearts that have passed through our door, their blessing adds to the whole. These walls have heard the voices of almost everybody that matters most to us and it’s as though they too become a part of this house, our home.

We were told that it would take about two years to feel at home here and that’s been about right.

Soon September will tell us when to hang up the Kayaks and deflate the tubes. Soon it will be hard to imagine it was still light out after 8:30 in the evening and that we wore shorts everyday. Soon the river will get quiet and the only people we will see are the people we know.

August has promised me two more watermelons and an Indian summer in September could put them on my table, I think I’ll wait it out. 

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Published in: on September 7, 2010 at 11:04 pm  Comments (3)  

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3 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. another great story! i was there for a while” with you why arent you getting paid for this???? you should put them all into 1 book ! thanks gregg steve

  2. I love your analogy of not caring about weeds in the garden to old men with hair in their ears! Definitely a masculine image, Gregg! I get the same lethargy in August…hopefully, I’m cured in September because it is my favorite time of year.

  3. Gregg, I finally got to sit down and savor your wonderful words! Hope you get that watermelon!


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