Summer Days

 

On a corner of Hasbrock and Old State is a golden field of wheat stubble left after the combine’s buzz cut harvest. I know that a walk there is damaging to my feet. The leftover stalks look as smooth as a good haircut on a cute boy but they are spikes into soft skin. The next corner waves it’s tassels of green corn stalks that were head high by the 4th of July. In the wind I hear the knife edged leaves rustle against each other. The fields are fronted by the tall ivory heads of Queen Anne’s lace filling the Ditch lines. When the grandchildren were small we picked the lace and placed in vases with food coloring to change the delicate bloom to blue or green or pink. Red food coloring never colors true red. Here and there orange road lilies are still fighting for existence. The stems from the lilies can be cut and dried for use in basket weaving. I learned that from Native Americans. I own a primitive split oak potato basket made by my grandmother who was born in 1880. And people use wheat stalks to weave crosses. I see these at craft shows.

Blue chicory lines the road edge and fills an occasional unmowed lawn. Chicory is not a native plant but is not invasive. I will use this and other native flowers and grasses on my corner of New Haven next year. Chicory and Queen Anne’s bring in the down side of summer days when we hear the cicadas singing in the hot afternoon. Now the trees are lush in their green stories hiding dead limbs and farm equipment in the countryside. Their cool shadows protect fairies in their lazy rest. leaves show their pale undersides now in the hazy wind to let us know of rainstorms on the way. All along the paths we follow, God shares the beauty in simple things of the season. He even brings memories of times and places for us to relive what has been a pleasure to us. Remember the summer vacation at Grandmothers when all the cousins would play together. Or a reunion when we waded in the river and half way home the next day we felt the itch of the chiggers. We survived. Or a day at Cedar Point enjoying the thrill of highs and lows and water in our faces and the scare of a pirate ride in a dark tunnel with a secret kiss.

I still have a prize from the age guessing game. A lion. The 16 year old running the game guessed me at 16 when I was 12. Oh yeah, he wanted me.

And then there is all kinds of summer love. When I worked my first job, I think I liked a different boy every week. All around me I saw boys and girls turning into couples. Forgotten as school began.

The corn is now tall blocking the intersections and making tunnels on the back roads

Beans are planted in the buzz cut wheat. They grow quickly into soft green carpets.

This woman still grieves for her husband, her lover. Summer days hurt me when he is not here to dream with me in the hot afternoon. The moonlight makes shadows under the trees that we used for love and dreams. I still feel his heart against mine.

August is never hot summer anymore like the sticky days of childhood. The month starts with lazy cicada song and cool evenings under the moon. Queen Anne’s lace is faded into bunches along the road. The state mows the roadside cutting the chicory away. Sunlight is a glare as it angles to earth. It is not real sunlight. Like July. The last garden tomatoes and green peppers struggle for light to ripen against the weeds that shout out against the gardener.

Family reunions are over. They number 14 and 25 and none at all for the ones that have ended. The old folks are gone and the cousins are older and infirm and not able to drive. Second cousins work and have vacations and ballgames and do not know each other. Schools start long before Labor Day halfway into August. Boats and campers fill the highways as camping and beaches close. The end of another season and anticipation.

We are left with mums and frost on the pumpkin and craft shows full of junk and repetition and signs telling us how to live. Artisans and true artists are few and far between in the market.

My grandson is playing MS football and he is worth watching. As a receiver he stands tall in his uniform and pads never letting on that he is a nervous 13 year old kid. I walk to the fence, he sees me and thanks me for coming. I have tears in my eyes. My first grandchild is a junior and beautiful and kind. My heart smiles with her work stories and girl friend dramas. I have been there and remember. Two grandchildren are in leadership groups and show love and humility. They have humor and sarcasm. They all give me hugs that warm me. A grandson is a freshman this year and we are concerned because we remember that year of trying to find our locker and how to find classrooms. I still have dreams of wandering the halls and missing math class. Schools have preventive actions in place but life is scary in the unknown all alone. I pray for all and believe God will watch over them.

The sun wanes in brilliant color to the west as friends share photos of the event.

I continue to love others. God shows me relief and comfort in my loss of family. And I will always love the one who knew me. Even as I knew his deception I loved him because he needed love and care. Open hearts are from God.