Who screwed up the seasons this
year? Winter, forecast to be a fairly
mild season, was extremely harsh ~ bitterly cold with wind-blown blizzards,
frigid temperatures and hazardous road conditions. Then Spring, I believe should be called Spr-ummer! Last year it was forecast that 2014 summer
would be long, hot and humid...well, June
complied. But, Mother Nature
handed us storms of booming thunder,
flashing lightning, tons of rain (the latter a devastating flooding...the worst
in decades...Burlington
was inflicted with atrocious damage with literally reconstruction costs running
into the millions of dollars!).
Now to be kind, Mother Nature has
favoured us with sunny days and cool evenings.
In the eve of September, Major League Baseball is drawing to a close,
Canadian and the National Football Leagues are in full swing. The grass is lushingly green...autumn flowers
in gorgeous bloom...woodland trails ever so inviting...local waterfalls gushing
with cascades...and country roads lure us to
travel. For what more could we
ask? The season is now Indian
Summer...defined as a period of mild, dry weather, usually accompanied
by a hazy atmosphere occurring in late September, October to early November.
'Tis the last rose
of summer,
Left blooming
alone;
All her lovely
companions
Are faded and
gone.
(by Thomas Moore
written in 1830)
Say Goodby to
Summer
(Excerpts from an
article written by Paul Benedetti ~
a Hamilton resident and former Spectator
reporter,
teaches Journalism at
the University of
Western Ontario)
Let's face it: summer
is over.
Like most people, I try
desperately to hang on to summer, hoping for one more warm day, one more clear
blue sky, one more excuse to have a cold 'summer beer' after work. A government official whose whole job is is
to watch a giant Season Clock in his office sounded an alarm and then sent an
e-mail to every civil servant to STOP WEARING WHITE TO WORK! Autumn means shorter and shorter days, colder
and colder temperatures and the really frightening realization that Christmas
mall music is only weeks away.
I know it's summer
when:
My dry, brown, dead grass
miraculously springs back to life and turns green for a brief fleeting moment.
My front lawn is essentially a dusty wasteland through July and August, so this
week or two of green is one of the world's many miracles.
You reluctantly, but finally
close the cottage. You have to clean out
the fridge (that's either a head of broccoli or a bowl of egg salad), shutter
the windows and drain the toilets. As
you drive away, you think back fondly on the two weekends you actually managed
to stay at the cottage and realize your per night cost was $1,493, not counting
tax. You weep!
Your neighbour, whom we will call
Dave, comes down to inform you that, “There are leaves collecting on your
lawn.” “Yes, Dave,” I say, “that's the
wonder of nature. The cooler weather
signals the tree to prepare for winter and the green chlorophyll disappears
from the leaves.” Dave retorts, “Yeah,
whatever, but that mess is going to blow down the street onto my lawn. Clean it
up.”
Finally, there is the issue of
shorts. This is the complex matter of
deciding when it's no longer reasonable to wear the pants of summer...shorts. He begins wearing shorts (excluding work
because 'the shop guys whistle at my legs') on Easter Weekend. And he never takes them off. “All right -thinking-people know that you
stop wearing shorts on American Thanksgiving ~ snowfall depending,” he
says. But Dave delivers it with
conviction, often with a Manhattan in hand.
I appreciate Dave's
one-man-campaign to extend summer. His
never-say-die approach inspires me. It
also keeps him barbecuing into December
and insisting his family dine
outside in the snow.
If you see him around this fall, say Hi. You can't miss him. He'll be the only guy in Fortinos with yellow
shorts...and blue legs.
Indian Summer
(written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)
He was an American poet and educator and author whose
works include 'Paul Revere's Ride, The Song of Hiawatha, Evangeline’...and many
philosophic quotes: e.g.
The best thing one
can do when it rains...is to let it rain.
In each life, some
rain must fall.
Music is the
universal language of mankind.
It is the Indian Summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air
like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky
haze fills the atmosphere...and a filmy mist lies like a silver lining on the
sky. The wind is soft and low. It wafts to the odour of forest leaves that
hang wilted on the dripping branches...or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the
autumnal rains had washed them out.
Orange, yellow and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet
hue. The birds, too, have taken wing and
have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter
of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice. All gone.
Only the dismal caring of a crow, as he sits and curses that the harvest
is over; or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel…the noisy denizen of a hollow
tree...the mendicant friar of a large parish... the absolute monarch of a
dozen acorns.
Merle
Baird-Kerr...scripted September 26, 2014
Comments are
welcome...e-mail to:
No comments:
Post a Comment