It’s time to rake up the remains of our expired season, summer. Here we are in October and I am only barely recovered from the solar tortures of mid-year.
One online source said the word summer stems from the word sulter, a variant of swelter. I’d like to believe that but others tell a different story. Several assert it is from the Old English sumor, which seems more like it.
They go on about Proto-German and even Sanskrit — yawn — but this is starting to remind me of the excessive details of my school days so let’s pull the plug on actual facts. We’re Americans. We can do that.
Technically, fall is here. The word obviously comes from the world around us. Leaves fall. Temperatures fall. If I go up on a ladder to check on the roof, I might fall. Then there was the fall of the Roman Empire, which was, according to historians, a big deal.
But back to summer, or sumor. (Are we going to make Old English great again?) It is supposed to be the sweetest season, but give me highs of 65 and lows of 45 and I am a happy camper. Well, the sort of camper who camps at home in my own bed. These days I suffer mightily if my favorite pillow isn’t just so.
My strongest summer memory is of complaining that it was too hot. I know many people like it, but in July and August I am almost useless. (My wife can verify.)
This summer came in with heat and went out with drought, which frazzled our beloved foliage. Millions of leaves just gave up, crinkled and died.
I guess the foliage was pretty good in a few spots. We saw some lively color two weeks ago in a jaunt to Newport and Sunapee. But all was brown and dull yellow soon after in Southern Vermont. The hills of Norwich last week were merely OK, with the patina of a rusty old farm truck. Charming on trucks, less so on trees.
But don’t tell the leaf peepers. Maybe some scientist in the Twin States can come up with Photoshop glasses to give them what they crave. Everything is virtual now, or soon will be.
At my own West Lebanon estate, the summer flowers have wilted and the grass is a crunchy blend of green and brown. Our crop, a lone tomato plant we purchased for $4.99, flourished for a time but then suffered from blight and a lack of ambition. It delivered delicious tomatoes, maybe $10 worth, but I bought some blight buster spray for about $15 and so my Hungry Acres Farm ran at a deficit again. I await tax credits or tariff relief.
As for summer travel, much of it was directed to our 2-year-old granddaughter in Connecticut, who nearly makes us swoon as we observe the great race of human development. She is currently working on a Ph.D. in pebbles and leaves, which fascinate her and therefore us. Sometimes I ask myself why did we not see how wonderful this was with our own children?
Because we were exhausted, of course. Parenting is a marathon. And another marathon. And another marathon.
Further afield, the Red Sox, our own boys of summer, are not the boys of fall. They stumbled in the playoffs against the rival New York Yankees, who will never be forgiven for past indignities.
I don’t follow baseball as closely as I once did — the games end too late, for one thing. But I liked the look of some of the young Red Sox players, including two rookie pitchers who came up aces and a young slugger who energized the team when it needed it.
That’s the great thing about baseball. Even when all is lost you can say “Wait til next year” and take comfort. Winter leads to spring and then a new summer, which may be too hot but still is full of possibilities.
It offers relief from the noise and cruelties of the outside world. Yes, I am thinking of the Trump Administration, which takes no seasons off from chaos and harm. Three more years of this crackpot circus? Yeesh. My little peeps and squeaks seem inadequate to the moment.
Come to think of it, even a minor league writer is like an anxious batter coming up to the plate, or computer, nervous little rituals before starting, fiddling with this and that, kicking at sand or the carpet, staring into the void, realizing you might swing mightily and come up empty. I know the feeling.
Still, in baseball, all paths lead to home, where the tired and wretched like me, despite everything, might finally feel safe.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
