It’s right around now, in late August, when I become tired
of summer.
I am tired of humidity, and heat, and perspiration, and
intermittent hot rainstorms. I am tired of this blurry blue / gray sky that
doesn’t mean anything – not sun, nor cloud, nor rain. I am tired of feeling
filthy and sweaty every day.
It was the same (but different) back in North Africa in the
1980s. There, it was dry from April to October. The temperature (in Kenitra,
and Casablanca, and Tunis) wasn’t extreme – not like the Sahara, thank god –
but the heat just went on and on. And the dust kept blowing in from the desert.
By mid-August, everything was dull and dusty and filthy and too warm.
(Question: why do I keep ending up in warm climates? Why am
I not living in Greenland, where I’d be deliriously happy?)
Here in New England, I start hearing crickets and
grasshoppers in August, and it gives me some hope. I hear them first thing in
the morning when Partner and I leave for work, and although it’s too warm, I
take heart. It’s late August, I think. Not much longer until September, and
cooler weather.
Autumn is the loveliest season here. It’s long and temperate
and pleasant. The trees lose their leaves, slowly, north to south; Vermont and
New Hampshire have their foliage season in September, but we don’t see it until
early October. And apple season comes in September. (Partner and I passed a
pear tree on a nearby street recently with pears that looked pretty much ripe.
In August!)
It’s still summer, but autumn is right around the corner.
I can hardly wait.
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