The mornings are already chilly. The pool is no longer a giant hot tub. Sunset creeps up minutes each day.
Glorious warmth, blasting air in a hot car, barefoot days are slipping away.
Watermelon is at its peak; the garden tomatoes are almost abundant; corn stands are open. When I pass the snow cone shack, picnic tables and lights strung to surround, I feel wistful and think of an Edward Hopper painting. The side of the road shack is a documentation of summer Americana.
Trying to hold onto the last of the season, we have paddled the river twice. Tony chose the warmest day and when it stayed warm we chose another day and paddled again. Paddling the river is an ode to summer's best, to holding on. We usually don't paddle until the end of summer, when summer has gotten away from us. After noting that it has gone too fast do we arrange the paddle and it becomes a symbolic holding-on.
The kayak is packed away.
So it is each morning and each evening that I begin and end each day outdoors. Whether reading or writing on the deck, an early morning walk with a friend, pulling the never ending weeds in the garden; riding my bike to teachers' week; savoring the pleasure of short sleeves and staying outdoors as long as I can.
Last night, the little guys stayed with us. I pulled them outdoors first thing. With their sleepy eyes, their tousled hair that needs a back-to-school cut, their summer pajamas--they watched the clouds, the rain shafts, the jumbotron at the stadium miles away.
I hope they will take with them a memory of the last days of summer with Grams and Gramps.
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