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Category: seasons

Perfect Peaches

Perfect Peaches

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It’s as if the peaches had been practicing all season to look this rosy and smooth-skinned, this thoroughly delicious.  “Last big picking,” they were billed, giving those of us who’d come to haunt this particular booth at the Wednesday farmers market ample warning: don’t expect this fruit again until next July. 

I felt the same tug in my heart I’m getting when I notice turning leaves or lowered light. 

But who can complain when the tilt of the sun produces peaches like these? 

(The astute observer will spot an interloper in this photo. I threw in a lemon to keep the peaches company.)

Last Walk of Summer

Last Walk of Summer

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It felt much the same as other summer walks, this last one before tomorrow’s equinox. I left too late, not unusual for me, and got caught in what passes for rush hour traffic in my neighborhood, parents and buses rushing to school. 

I wore a sweatshirt that I tied around my waist at the halfway point. The birds were a little less chirpy, the cicadas nonexistent, so it lacked midsummer’s buzz and shimmer. 

But as I write this post on the deck a desultory cricket chirps and pools of light and shade dapple the backyard. 

It will be close to 90 today, and the grass needs mowing. It’s still summer. 

Lulled into Fall

Lulled into Fall

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Mornings are cool enough that I’ve worn a long-sleeve tee-shirt on my walks the last few days. Even if I roll up my sleeves halfway through, I start out warmed against the chill — chill being a relative term these days, anything below 65. 

Still, the handwriting is on the wall. The handwriting of seasonal change, that is. Oh, there will be more humidity. It will crank up today and last for a while. Birds will still perch on the rose bush and flutter in the azalea. 

But days are shorter (I came in before 8 last night) and leaves are turning yellow. It’s the mellow month of September, lulling us into fall. 

Stoking Up

Stoking Up

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The hummingbirds are stoking up, preparing for a heroic flight to southern climes. Which means I’ll make another batch of nectar and enjoy the show. 

Although the tiny birds have been scarcer around the feeder this year, preferring to take their sustenance from the nearby zinnia garden, they’ve been topping up with the nectar,. And now that the days are waning they’ve been sparring with each other to imbibe the sugary syrup.

They zoom one way and then another, bobbing and feinting to reach their goal and sip their fill.

It’s one more sign that summer is winding down. But at least it’s an entertaining one. 

Stereophonic Summer

Stereophonic Summer

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The cicadas are back today, or maybe it’s just that I’m outside, in a better position to hear them.  Their shimmering sound is stereophonic, flowing from one side of the yard to the other. 

How evocative it is! How it distills the summer. It is chorus and verse, call and response. It is fecundity and humidity and all the other parts of the season that make us (or at least me) feel so alive. 

Today, however, it’s competing with the sound of chain saws, which it often does these days. But I’m tuning out that white noise and focusing on the cicadas instead.

(Photo of cicadas from last year’s Brood X.)

Late August

Late August

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It’s warm and slightly muggy today but the cicadas are quiet, the children are, too. It’s the first day of school in Fairfax County.

It’s early this year. When our children were young, they never went back until the day after Labor Day, which meant that this last week of August was the one when we’d  buy school supplies, learn about teachers and schedules, take one last trip to the pool.

It’s a desultory time, summer’s last gasp. The zinnias are leggy, the mint has bolted, and brown leaves are sifting down from the dying oak. 

How can summer be ending? There must be some mistake!

Long-Day Season

Long-Day Season

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The headline caught my eye just in time to save the page of newsprint from becoming part of the fire-starting equipment last week at the late.  “Darkness creeping in as long-day season ends,” it said. 

Apparently Saturday, August 6 was the last day we’ll have 14 hours of sunlight until May 2023. It was the end of what the article called the “brightness quarter,” the 90 or so days of “solar beneficence and dazzle” we receive every May, June and July. 

It’s also the end of long twilights and drawn-out dawns, of slower living made possible by humid air and looser schedules. You might even say it’s the end of that feeling of limitlessness and possibility that summer brings. 

But that would be a gloomy thing to write on a spectacular late-summer morning, not in keeping with the bountiful daylight we still enjoy. 

A Scorcher Begins

A Scorcher Begins

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I’m just back from a walk through the rapidly warming morning. It isn’t a scorcher yet, but it has every intention of becoming one. Checking the forecast now: ah yes, a high of 96. That’s why I met so many dog-walkers and early runners. 

There’s a feel to the air in a morning that’s moving toward high temps but has not achieved them. It’s the last vestiges of cool lingering in the shadows and the dips in the road. It’s the cicadas gearing up for a raucous recital. 

It’s the summer, full bore, and those of us who don’t mind the heat, who thrive on the long light, are reveling in it. 

Camp Reston

Camp Reston

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On a walk my first day back I marveled at the transformation. When I left for vacation, school was still in session and early heat was still battling spring chill. But now it is full-on summer. 

On the lake, fishermen wait patiently for a nibble. Children cavort on canoes and paddle boards. Sunbathers turn their towels toward the sun. Shade is deep and wide; the walker seeks it when she can. 

The place I live no longer feels like a suburb. It feels like a camp. 

May Chauvinist

May Chauvinist

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I know I’m a May (as opposed  to male) chauvinist, but really, what’s not to like about this month?

The climbing rose is blooming its heart out. The Big Heat is just getting warmed up (though it’s early this year, will be 95 here today). And the air is scented with honeysuckle flower.

Schools are letting out, vacations are beginning, days are long and languid. 

I’m grateful to be embarking upon another trip around the sun today. I just snuck into May … but I’m glad I did.