The sun’s egg yolk eye of new possibility rises lower on the horizon these days. It’s starting to gab with the tree tops here in the woods. Some of the leaves turn starstruck with yellow, amazed that the sun pauses to talk with them. “To think,” some of the more spiritual ones whisper, “he even cares about us!”
Cold slips through the moon’s teeth at this time of year. You can’t see your breath under a full moon at midnight yet. (Not that I’d know. I’m asleep, dreaming, missing all the dark’s secrets.)
In the morning you debate: yes, no, maybe so. Should I start a fire in the wood stove? How much do you want to shiver early morning as you sip your steaming tea? Shall I wear my hooded 2000 University of Michigan sweatshirt over pajamas and burrow beneath the pink blanket?
I told Barry–no fire this morning. I’ll tough it out. He puttered away to work in the silver Buick. No need to scrape the car’s window yet.
Guess I lied. Match soon struck against box sending the sun’s cousin–firelight–working its magic against tree bark, igniting another early September blaze.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s supposed to be warm today. 75 (24 C) delicious degrees. I love late summer. Love, love, love late summer. The world feels like tepid bath water, so close to your skin. The cicadas sing, their legs like earthy violins.
Wasps lazily float by and you don’t cry out. They won’t sting you. Don’t panic. They feel winter’s urgency in their wasp-wings and they’re pondering the sun’s fickle angle. Like all the forest creatures, they sense change. They know cold’s a’comin’ and they’re doing what wasps do.
I won’t Google: what happens to wasps in winter? You can, if you like. I’m just going to stay here in the realm of not-knowing, watching their dance. My mind doesn’t want any more facts. It just wants to fly with the wasps.
Or the chickadees. Or the great immature bald eagle perched on the treetop across the bay yesterday. Why are immature eagles brown and white, when someday their heads and tails sport majestic ethereal white and their massive-bird bodies shine in jet black?
I don’t care. You can Google the whys and wherefores, if you like.
Late summer teases you lazy. Your fingers don’t want to lift if you’re sitting in the afternoon sun baking. The cold snit of morning trails memory, like it never happened. You can hardly remember starting that fire in the wood stove. Admit it.
But get up lazy bones. You must receipt taxes. You must work to earn your earthly wage. You must scribble name & date on your newly canned Dilly Beans and carry to the bowels of the basement, the food room, the modern-day equivalent of root cellar.
What name, what name, on the Dilly Beans? Barry and I vie for the silliest or most entertaining names. It’s what we journalism graduates do for fun. I named the first batch of salsa–in which he unceremoniously dumped an entire co-op packet of cumin– “The Great Cumin Caper.”
What shall I name the Dilly Beans? How about: “Rattled Dillies”? Since they’re Rattlesnake Beans, you know. Then you carefully record the date: 9/4/13 and wait six to eight weeks before opening the jar, so insists the recipe, and dare we disobey the recipe?
Oh, there’s basil to blend into more pesto. There’s more beans to pick. And fat red tomatoes which we’ll now try in Pico de Gallo, which of course you know is like uncooked salsa, natural sun-kissed raw vegetables blending together to tantalize the tongue, of course we can add some more cumin, Barry.
Never-ending late summer work when all you want to do is laze with a good book on the deck come afternoon. What good book, you ask? I just finished The Husband’s Secret by Liane Moriarty, nothing too deep, light reading, and salivated, mesmerized, until the end, eager to discover the whys and wherefores. I won’t give anything away except the very final epilogue shares something you’d never imagine. Don’t you love when a good book captures you thus?
The sun’s egg yolk eye of possibility rises higher. I could type snippets all day, or at least until breakfast, but will cease now. You commenters might share tidbits about the latest good book you’ve devoured, or how much you love late summer, or did you have sunny-side-up eggs for breakfast?