Every August, the same thing happens. I begin to grow weary of certain things about summer. By the end of July, all of the plants that I so patiently planted and potted and watered at the beginning of the summer begin to turn yellow and produce less. So the tomatoes that once looked like this…..
…..now look like this…..
Even the squirrels don’t want them anymore.
My mother always said that summer was half over on July 4. Technically, that’s probably true. But it is around August that I start losing my will to garden. My petunias — once spectacular — are now sad and overgrown. I threw away two of my potted flowering plants yesterday because they just had simply had it. They’d lost their will to live.
August is also the month that most of our grandkids start heading back to school. That shouldn’t actually impact me much, but nevertheless, I am sad about their return to a life where they’re not at my beck and call. Let me tell you, however, that my grandkids aren’t sad about school starting. They don’t take after me in that regard. I was always sad about the return of school daze, both when I was school-aged and when Court was in school.
I watched the weather news the other night, and the 20-year-old weather expert warned me that August was going to be rainy and chilly. I have been complaining to anyone that would listen (which basically means Bill, who is trapped at the breakfast table with me every morning and has mastered the art of looking like he’s listening when actually he’s reading about how to install pocket doors) that we have had such a dry summer and how much I wish it would rain.
And so it has been raining, and what am I doing? Complaining about the rain. Just call me Eeyore.
Monday night, it was so chilly that I put an afghan over me to sleep. That, by the way, is not a complaint. In my perfect world, the days would be warm and the nights would cool down to about 50, allowing me to leave the windows open to let in the cool night air and use a comforter to stay warm. Bliss.
Mylee — who is currently obsessed with heaven — would say that’s the way I will sleep in heaven. I hope she’s right.
Following the previous cool night, I awoke yesterday and put on jeans and a sweatshirt. I bought the fixings for meat loaf for dinner. Around noon, I met a friend for lunch, and noticed two things: 1) the temperature was around 80 degrees and I was hot; and 2) meat loaf didn’t sound that good. Nevertheless, meat loaf it was last night.
The moral of my story — as it is later summer every year — is that I am apparently not easily satisfied when it comes to weather. But I am happy that football is just around the corner.