Returning with the Rain

“What’s the date?” I ask the checker, as I glance out at the drizzle.  “August nine.  Today is eight, nine, ten–pretty cool,” she adds with a smile.

What happened to July?  It’s August?  When did that happen?  Funny how time off with plenty of sunny weather can relieve one of an awareness of the calendar.  Wasn’t it June just a moment ago?

But apparently the combination of a little paid work, a lotta gardening, and a couple of long weekends paddling, biking, hiking, and generally, indulging, add up to 31 days.  My to-do list for this summer begs to differ, however; it looks as pristine as it did July 1st, with nary a line drawn through a to-do!  I’m in some kind of wrinkle in time.

The only wrinkle, if I’m being honest, is that July was so fluid it passed through my consciousness in a single stream.  It opened and closed like a sigh, or maybe it closed and opened like eyes dreaming.  All I know for sure is that July has always been my favorite month.  The month of my birthday, of vacations, of sun and berries.  And it’s gone again.  August always seems a bit grouchy by comparison.  The sun may be out–though not today–but too often a gauze of marine air or heat haze wash out the blue skies.  Temperatures are often hotter for days on end in August, but it’s not a caressing heat; August hot is mostly tired and itchy.  While I love that my garden teems in August, and the Farmer’s Market runneth over, inspiring amazing meals and much to jam, pickle, freeze, and can, the plenty hints at fall around the corner.  Put up the food now, so we eat in December.  July is always free of such responsibility.

Today I cleaned out my freezers and made jam from the remainder of last summer’s berries.  I can now strike out one item on my to-do list.  I’ve also updated Susan in the Rain, neglected in the shadows cast by brilliant July.  I find my writing muscle is a bit weak from the lack of exercise, or perhaps it’s the muscle between my ears that’s grown weak.  I’ve been a bit of a lotus eater of late, stirring myself to seek pleasure, but not much else.  Sigh…July:  white wine on the porch in the afternoon while I read or committed desultory acts of gardening.  But this is August now. There’s work to be done.