August

 August trots in all crafty, deliberately trailing July's train as July's always fabulous five weeks retreat having once again successfully hung the mantle of Summer on its thirty one days.  August will not ride July's coattails; it is a unique creature unto itself.  It proudly touts itself as the Dog Days of Summer, heat and humidity uniquely combined with the first whiffs of fall.

August proudly boasts ownership of summer colors.  At the beginning of the month, the carefully nurtured flowers are in full bloom, colors resplendent, playing off each other in the gardens.   Neighbors stop and stare at not just pinks and reds and yellows but fuschias and crimsons and golds, pumpkin orange as a precursor to the fruit ripening in the garden.  This is August.

This is also August.  The plants reluctant to grow since you first placed them in the ground with the admonishment and supports to thrive now give up the ghost, as do you.  You mentally note as to where they were planted while you pass them by with the hose, turning water on the survivors.  Of course you'll give them a try again next year, as one always does.

August throws a few furtive glances over its shoulder as the leaves, now exhausted by maintaining multiple shadings of green for months, slowly drift to the ground, yellow bordering the margins.  Not yet, you can hear the early August breezes petition.  Too early.

August carefully oversees the birds who begin looking south as they chow down at the feeders, chirping to each other that perhaps they should get out while the getttin's good.

Mid-August, the winds, even on warm days, carry with them an undercurrent of cool, a warning that the next set of leaves shed by the trees will fall to the ground crunchy and brown, ready for rake rather than broom. Flower blossoms crumble into themselves as their season finale. New buds don't follow.  The plants are receiving the message.  Fall is coming.

Mid-August, most vegetables shift into high gear to ripen, often overnight and all on the same day.  Zucchini, barely thumb size on Monday, resembles a juggler's club on Wednesday.  Neighbors pull down their shades to fain absence when you approach with a bag full of that squash, perhaps a few excess cucumbers and, if  you're feeling magnanimous, tomatoes whose taste will send them into an ecstacy known only for a few brief August weeks each year.  

Mid-August, you are able to purchase a multitude of pumpkin-spiced items in just about any store.  Summer is packed away in the storeroom, slumbering until its resurgence directly after Easter.

Crickets produce the national anthem of August, day and night, most noticeable hanging in the dense evening air, the lullaby lulling you to sleep through now open windows.  The temperature begins its precipitous drop in August, particularly at night.  August lets you know you will not get away with it.  It will indeed grow cold.

Late August marks the return of the yellow school bus, trailing through neighborhoods as drivers become familiar with their routes.  Children stop and stare as the bus go past their house, then continue their outdoor activities with an increased urgency.  They know.  Their outside days are numbered.

Late August resembles both Sybil and Tigger.  One day it asks you to don sweatshirts and pull on jeans.  The next, it bounces back to tank tops and shorts and then, later in the week, perhaps a combo of shorts and long sleeved shirt but you better bring along a short sleeve and maybe some sweats because if the sun hides behind the clouds, you might need to change and if there are no clouds, well, then again, you might need to change.

August 31 marks the end of meteorological summer.  

Unlike its exuberant entrance, August exits with a sigh.  The inevitable has occurred.  The green tomatoes left on the vine may need to be relegated to indoor ripening as the days have shortened, temperatures cooled.  It will soon be beyond time to unearth the potatoes; pick the fruit from the vines which yellow, brown, wither; discard the bean plants that will not flower a third time.  

Hello, September.  August sends this message on its ever cooling winds, tangled in the dropping leaves, dappled with diminishing sunshine.  I gave it a good run. You're all set. Time for fall.