Sliding out of summer

Our allotment of light lessens by a few minutes each evening.  Raspberries are still just on the cusp of ripening. A slow season to be sure, but the bees tenaciously do their part, a witness that there is still hope.  As long as we can ward off frost for just a few more weeks.  Raspberry picking might be one of our favorite fall harvests, much more tasty than a lettuce leaf or pea pod when you need a little pick-me-up in the fields.  Beans still hang on to their mother stems, slowing maturing and eventually drying out to the familiar black we recognize.  Millions I think.  I wish they would grow a little taller, it’s so far to bend these days.  We’ve got just as many tomatoes as everyone, which is weird since no one really likes them in our family except me.  Avery keeps trying, which is brave of her.  Come to think of it, there’s a lot out there we don’t love, but it’s all healthy and Todd’s figured out which crops feel comfortable here. Callum pedals his wares throughout the neighborhood on his bike with bags hanging off his handlebars, and Avery and I do our part to keep things tidy.  The weeds outnumber us 54 to 2.  Pears have been ordered, along with a few more apples.  We discovered how much we love nearly-dried pears a couple of years ago, and the wafting fragrance of them on our dehydrator in the mornings soothes our senses.  We’ve got a couple newish boxes of peaches we’re trying to make our way through, peach raspberry jam is on the horizon.  If we could ever find a night at home together.  I miss Todd.

The lawn needs to be cut, the onions are drying on the back patio.  Outdoor play equipment litters our yard, bikes easily within grasp.  A game of badminton calls to us, its new birdies still in their plastic holding pen.  The floor’s still sticky from the honey harvest.  Bottles rest nestled on their pantry shelf, honey waiting its turn to become part of granola or bread or as the frosting to a piece of peanut buttered toast. 

We’re squeezing in just one more campfire in Red Lodge, one last trip of the season.  A residual warm breeze beckoning us to the mountains.  A weekend or two left before the ice cream stand on the way up closes for the season.  These are perhaps the saddest goodbyes of all.

In another Saturday or two I’ll wake up to the pops of goose hunters’ guns, a sure sign fall is in the air.  The ones who got away will hook up in formation across a true sky blue backdrop.  Taking turns as leader.

I’ve been trimming out raspberry canes and snipping off flower heads that have fallen asleep standing straight up.  The pumpkin vines have taken up residence in the next box over, draping their fingers over edges, trying not to disturb the vegetation that’s still hanging around.  Our strawberry plants have decided to call it a season, but they’ve grown close the past few months, huddling together against the pending chill.

School started just this week, late for most calendars. Kids traipsed into their newly arranged classrooms, a little off-balance with backpacks too heavy for their small bodies, laden with supplies that used to greet us on wooden desks back in the 70s and 80s.  Supplies that weren’t even invented back then, wipes, zippered plastic bags, white board markers.  I feel like we’re stocking the janitors’ closet along with the pencil boxes.

I struggle to remember what I do, what my days looked like last spring. I feel my tiredness returning.  I’m back to needing naps.  I liked sleeping in a bit in the summer.  Maybe it’s just easier when it’s not dark as the alarm goes off.  I plugged in what variables I could recall, a few hours at school, a couple at the temple, housework on my own, some visits and a meeting.  Bedtime stories, lunches, weeding by myself.  I miss the kids.

The after-dinner hours beg for just a little more playtime with the evening sunbeams, and yet the demands of another school day insist on the semblance of routine.  I teeter but usually cave.  Helping with the honey is educational, fresh air healthy.  Certainly these values trump those of conventional sensibility and an early bedtime.

It’s a lazy start to the school year, not much homework yet, a short week coming off a holiday weekend, warm cloudless skies that tease me, making me believe it’s much earlier than it is.  I hate that my high school son is never home.  Work and cross country remind me of life at his age, each of us sauntering in after the day had essentially been spent.  The kids are getting so big, so cliche, I know.  A new normal with Andrew in college and the little kids needing less and less of me.  I wonder what the year will look like, but for now I’m just about ready to start making soup again.  Our honey patiently waits for its fresh bread loaves to show up.  I know my fall decorations are itching to be freed from their boxes, eager to stretch and take up residence on their familiar perches.  The insides of the house need a brush-up, a little tlc from a neglectful summer full of travels and visitors, the bustle of activities and get-togethers.

So as we head into the first weekend of September, I long to push pause.  And maybe rewind.  For this is my favorite month.  As Thursday is my favorite day.  There should be at least 32 days this month, it should linger and hang about just a little longer than the others.  Because nothing is more beautiful than the yellowing leaves and crisp bookends of the day.  The sky is never more fluid or bright than the one covering Big Sky Country in fall.  These are the days I breathe in deeply.  And sigh.  Mostly satisfied and content, basking in the last of the summer sun.