Late August

After two gloriously sunny days, where we tried to soak up the last rays of summer (ask me about Little One free boarding), today dawned grey and quite cool. The Bigleaf Maples along the road are less green or already yellow—not brown, not quite yet. Summer is indeed losing her hold on us. I reach for a long-sleeved shirt this morning instead of short, and the shirt in my hand is stiff. It has been line dried, and I can smell the wind and feel the sun’s warmth as I pull it over my head. Darling Husband walks by and gives me a hug; he, too is in a scratchy shirt, off to play soccer in the cool morning, before it rains.

We are calm, since we have cleaned the gutters and the firewood is under cover. Together, we bring in the hammock and the wicker patio furniture, though I leave the little drop-leaf wooden table under the eaves, in hopes of a few pleasant September days yet to come. While we are sad to see summer go, we know that the seasons that follow all bring their own gifts.

It seems a bit premature to be buttoning up, but we will be in California for most of next week, easing my mother into moving into smaller digs. I hope to see her settled before the change of seasons, but it is less noticeable there; she will still be swimming while we are searching for raincoats.

The last two weeks has seen a growing gathering of jam jars on the kitchen counter. Now they are washed and labeled, ready to be ferried downstairs to the shelves in the garage. The apple tree gave us a half-dozen big fruits in spite of its major pruning this winter (the weight of last year’s crop had toppled it to 45 degrees), and there are still blackberries to be had, so there is still more jam in the offing. However, I have but four empty jars left, and the plum tree is only just beginning to bear, dropping fruit in the bed of the pickup. The squirrels have begun their attack on the Asian pear tree: judging the state of the fruit, we imagine they pick a fruit, bite into it expecting an apple, throw it on the ground in disgust when it isn’t, and try again, much like a person looking for a cherry cordial in a box of mixed nuts.

I’ll combine the hunt for shoes for Number One (whose feet are now my size) with a jaunt to the thrift shop for empty jars. The we’ll hurry home and pick a few plums for that late summer tradition, Zwetschgenkuchen, a simple plum tart like they make in the Rhine Valley. Since we’ll be sharing it tomorrow with our new friends in Little One’s first grade class, I’ll do a little research and see if I can make some changes to accommodate the constellation of dietary restrictions this group brings. We’ll meet and potluck at the beach tomorrow afternoon—hopefully won’t have to huddle under the picnic shelter.