This summer has been a really cool one. The nights have often dipped into the fifties, and many days have just barely hit 80 degrees. Humidity has been low, the sun and breeze abundant. This summer has been perfect.
I expect I might feel differently if I spent the year looking forward to long days at the beach, Corona in hand, reading fluffy novels and relaxing. If my house had central air conditioning. If I didn't travel in a party of four dependents and a double stroller (I love my double, but after flying adult solo to almost every soccer practice and game this summer, I am so tired of loading it in and out of the van...). And I love wearing shorts with long sleeve tops sans sweat. If this is summer, it can go on forever.
But the season is beginning to change. The insects sound different, more insistent. Fallen maple leaves have scattered themselves across the driveway, summer green giving way to tinges of red and yellow. A hint of sadness is in the air, a hint that gains strength when the clouds momentarily drift between sun and earth, or when the air grows still just before dusk.
I was contemplating these things on Saturday, when we came across a bunch of children's Christmas books on sale at the local library. At 25 cents a pop, I snapped up twelve of them. The plan is to put them away until December, and then incorporate them into our Christmas preparations.
In some strange way, finding those books gave a counterpoint to the melancholy of summer's waning. Thoughts of white twinkling lights, the subtle scent of evergreen, bright warmth against the cold, strong spicy beer, the ever new joy of Emmanuel. And suddenly that gnaw of imminent decay had lost its bite.
Have a great week, everyone!