Partner is sick and tired of hearing me declare that, in Rhode Island, on August 15 (or thereabouts), we change to autumn.
Except that it's always true.
I mean: I see his point. Here it is almost two weeks later, and we're sitting here sweltering with the air conditioners on, waiting for a hurricane to pass over in the next 48 hours.
But the August 15 thing never fails. Never. There's a slight drop in the temperature and humidity, and a few drops of dew on the grass in the morning. And I hear the crickets, at morning and dusk. And the light is altogether different, for god's sake! Duskier. More autumnal.
It's a month after the solstice, so of course there's bound to be a change. The evenings are definitely darker. No more twilight until nine o'clock; it's dark, or almost, by eight o'clock now.
None too soon for me, kiddos. I hate the humid unsettled New England summer, all stormclouds and warm fronts. I long for the cool calm sunny weather of September and (better yet) October, which are easily New England's best months.
But so many New Englanders are summer-worshippers! They hate the thunderstorms and humidity as much as I do, but they love summer. Just because.
Well, I don't. It's a pain. I hate sweating through my shirt. I hate looking out the window and seeing a bruise-colored sky. Or brassy angry one-hundred-degree sunshine. Or waiting for another bloody Atlantic hurricane to maybe-or-maybe-not come ashore.
I long for the beautiful colorful New England autumn, and the calm passage into winter.
New England winter itself is a bitch.
But we can talk about that a few months from now, after I've fractured my spine by slipping on an icy sidewalk.
No comments:
Post a Comment