Early August

 "Early August"

Beneath the canopy of the maple I sit, shaded from August's bright afternoon sun.  The inside chores are done, or at least at a stopping point ~ never really done.

Early August.


Some lament this time as the dog days of summer.  The little country girl in me delights in summer.  It's hot, but isn't it supposed to be?



Early August.  A wondrous concoction of all I love about summer has engulfed my world.  Bright, hot sunshine has warmed the humid country air.  Any activity brings perspiration.  The crescendo and decrescendo of the cicada's chatter is suddenly loud, then progressively quiet, then silent only to repeat their mesmerizing refrain.  On the gentle, warm breeze drifts the heavy perfume of the sweet autumn clematis, the late summer bloomer that has overtaken the raspberry patch.  The blue sky is decorated with a few cumulus clouds, lines of jet vapor, and a pair of graceful red-tail hawks.

"A Familiar Panic"

The tall phlox, daisies, hibiscus and black-eyed susans remain in their blooming vigor. This particular blend of delight for my senses has aroused a familiar sort of panic. This panic, occurring annually, arises from the knowledge that the first day of school is looming and my seemingly endless summer will be ending.  Even now in my 5th decade of life (!!!) I'm stirred to savor the glorious, summered moments all at once.  School is long ago on my particular time line, yet I still feel a pressure to squeeze in all I longed to accomplish in this fleeting season. There is so much I still want to do.... start another painting, reorganize my art studio, revise my landscaping, make blackberry jam, plan that bonfire, and just sit and ponder!

 "My reverie has whisked me back 40 years"

 I'm spellbound!  The perfect summer mixture has halted any other productive thing I may have done today at my Patch of Paradise.  I continue to be amazed at how easily triggered are my memories, those memories that are never really buried but lingering, floating just beyond. My reverie has whisked me back 40 years to an August afternoon at my grandparents' house.  I see my grandmother's row of Rose of Sharon bushes blooming lavender, pink, white.  The old brick farm house is cool despite the thermometer's reading; Grandma has a fan in the kitchen window.  I'm sitting at the piano trying to peck out "Bye Bye Blackbird" by ear and with only my right hand.  (If only I'd learned to play that lovely baby grand with both hands....and learned how to use those foot pedals!) Grandma is sitting in her chair "resting her eyes."  Because sometimes a farm wife isn't afforded the luxury of a nap in the afternoon, a peaceful time of sitting with closed eyes is just enough of a respite, probably not quite.  As I play "Bye, Bye Blackbird" over and over, my heart knows that the lovely summer is ending and a new school year is waiting, stern-faced at the door, dressed in serious clothes, holding an armload of books. 

"Blackbird, bye bye"

I can't stay here long in my remembrance... sometimes the beauty of it all is so much that I don't want to leave the dream. Yet I love my real life ... the lovely family we have (with grand-babies added to the ranks from time to time), the peace that living in the country brings, the opportunity to be a grandmother who creates beautiful summer memories for her grandchildren.


 School has already started for the grandchildren.

"Don't panic," I tell myself, "there's still lots of summer left." 

You don't have to fly away yet, Black bird.