720 hours hath September

There is something about September.

I wake to the sound of rain splattering on the copper rooftop, slapdash and sporadic, its disordered pattern teasing and anticipatory.

The dove gray skies are a soft, woolen blanket the earth has loosely wrapped about her shoulders. She makes a tucking in gesture, paying no mind to the cold and endless black that surrounds her. It softens her edges, mollifies the barbed tips of clacking seconds as they tick, tick, tick in the foggy background. They slowly transform into a muffled heartbeat. Is it mine, or hers?

My first whiff of wood smoke … I am transformed. A tendril that taps at a memory drawer, unopened for months and stiff with disuse. But once loosened, it spills, like cream over ripe berries, and I do little to halt the movement of either.

There is a tinge to the trees, too early to label as anything more than a lowering of the bright, green flame of searing summer life. The sun has merely stepped back a pace to eye her work in progress and rest on the handle of her proverbial rake. And like all avid gardeners, she finds that there are other projects that catch her eye as they rotate into her field of vision. And with that momentary lapse of intense attention, the products of her efforts soon yellow and wither. No matter, she shrugs. Work will resume next circle round.

010913SepSun (745x800)

It’s now that I brood about in the pantry. I count the beans—for big potted stews which will fill chipped crockery and rumbling bellies. I measure the tea—for ample kettle-fulls that let slip soft wisps of steam carrying somnolent notes of ginger, cinnamon and chicory. I eye the whisky—for the pure pleasure of the oncoming flush of heat. And then I eye the clock to determine how long I must wait for that sweet fever. It’s usually too long. Always too long.

010913Beans (750x800)

Each year, I am caught unawares when changing the calendar from the eighth to the ninth month. August is so spectacularly hot, so devoid of working people, so filled with the phrase, “We are off for three weeks.” September is for ‘back to business,’ ‘back to school,’ or ‘Back to you, Bob, and that’s a look at our weather.”

It’s a transitional month, a swinging door from a sizzling, smoke belching kitchen to a plush-lined parlor, with hushed library voices and our mental bandwidth slowly revving into gear. There is an observable change in the laundry basket, which once barely reined in an endless mess of cut-off jean shorts and paper thin tank tops and now houses prim white shirts and pleated skirts, ordered and homogenous.

010913AugSep (800x647)

The printer churns a constant stream of schedules, documents, forms and calendars, convulsing with updated information like a Morse code machine relaying movement of troops and coordinated attacks. Paperwork lies across all available flat surfaces, requiring signatures, filing, and the hopefully intended read-through.

With the onslaught of shifting our moods and modes, it does not surprise me that in 1752, when the British Empire adopted the Gregorian calendar, they cut nearly two weeks from their clocks by finishing September 2nd and then skipping straight to September 14th. Perhaps it was not simply a method of keeping up with the rest of the world, but also a way to wipe away exhausting obligations. But then again, Britain can be slow to give up commitment and tradition, and their participation in Gregorian reform was 170 years after the first memo landed on everyone’s desk. In fact, a law created in 1307 states that still, should any dead whale be found, washed ashore on the British coast, the head automatically becomes property of the king, while the lucky queen shall have its tail. One must have access to bones for one’s corset, yes?

010913Whales (800x566)

Thankfully, September is nowhere near the holiday party season, and there is plenty of time to hunt the shores for washed up whale.

But there should also be time for reflection and observance among the business of harvest. The long days of reaping, the field work and preservation may still take place in the sweat of the last shafts of summer sun, but once she has set, there is a thinning of the air. The scent of woodsy autumn appears on a breeze that slowly pushes summer’s plump stars off stage in preparation for the next act: a crisp set of patterns that will pierce the dark, blue skies.

Of course, intermission casts the bright light of the Harvest moon, and she will illuminate your path from field to home and back again. September bathes in that downy, yellow glow, almost as if aware of her age, asking to be seen through a soft focus lens.

Be busy, be effortful, be thoughtful.

Be here now, in September. Before she says goodbye.

~Shelley

Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery (here) and what we all talked about down in the pub (here). And to see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone–click here.

6 thoughts on “720 hours hath September

    • Wow, Ardy. You always make me feel ten feet tall.
      I think I’m going to get a T-shirt made with your first sentence printed on the front and an arrow pointing up to my head. Of course, beneath it, I’ll have to have an asterisk with the phrase, “According to a very good looking woman in Australia.”
      xx 😉

  1. Shelley,

    As I read through your current creation, I felt as if I was back at UW Madison listening to a lecture of a professor and Rhode scholar, Reynolds Price, (if I only would have had that incredible experience). Your writings have taken on a passion, flavor and color, as I have mentioned before similar to that of Matisse; filled with Impressionism, Modernism, Neo-impressionism. As if you have taken on the creative and yet authentic thoughts of a mix between Harriet Beecher Stowe (Uncle Tom’s Cabin), Garrison Keillor (Lake Wobegon Summer 1956… such fluidity in wrote words and description), with a twist of Jonathan Haidt (of The Happiness Hypotheses).

    Granted, I’m not labeling you as a W. Whitman or R.W. Emerson as of yet; however, yet again you have leaped forward in your rhythmic, poetic and soothing wrote words to entertain with fascinating complexity of which at the end, the calming rain drops will make everything comprehensible.

    Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.
    – Ralph Waldo Emerson

    This is who you have become… I suggest you continue on your journey of self discovery and not look back.

    Best regards,

    Stoshu 🙂

  2. Such high praise. I feel unworthy. I really expect to be compared more to Steve Martin. In particular, the title to one of his books. A very specific one. ‘Pure Drivel.’

    Regardless, I will send the requisite five bucks and a bag of jelly beans to you in the mail as promised for such a stellar review.

    And of course, I so appreciate you taking the time to read my attempt to describe an afternoon being tortured by the smell of Mom’s pot roast. Three hours to kill = one broody essay. *sigh*

    xoxo

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