Every August I nurse a quiet grudge against one particular tree at the end of my block. I've barely flipped the calendar page past July and that damned tree is already out there subtly performing its color change trick, tinting a handful of leaves a light, September-ish orange.
I can almost hear its whispered taunt: "Psst, Deb. It's almost fa-all!" As if the aisles upon aisles of back to school supplies in the stores isn't enough to communicate that disheartening message.
It isn't fall itself that's the problem; I love the cooler air, the crispy crunchy leaves, the changing slant of the sun. It's the transition from a wild, barefoot season to a regimented, sensible-shoed one that inevitably drapes me in a shroud of melancholy. I am not a fan of the end of things, and the end of my favorite season does not get easier to face no matter how old I get.
When my kids were young, fall was when I mourned the need to have them corralled in classrooms for the better part of each weekday. I missed their out and in and out again dashes through the house, missed hearing them concoct new worlds for themselves in the front yard, missed the tangle of sheets and pillows when they camped out on the living room floor on too-hot nights.
Now fall means waving goodbye as Melissa heads back to college in Minnesota, and fewer drop-in visits from Jessica as she juggles classes at Northern Michigan University and her part-time job. This fall will also mark my son Daniel's (second) exodus from under my roof, as he moves back into a rental home with friends.
I'll probably tear up a little. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll probably cry like a baby--or like a mother whose children are now self-sufficient adults. Tears of pride, tears of wonder at how quickly the years went by. And when I finish crying I may just do a little happy dance over having the house all to myself at long last.
Luckily for mopey post-summer me, August is about more than just endings; it also ushers in several happy weeks of explosive fruit production in my backyard. My blackberry bushes yielded several large bowls of berries per week this year in August. It felt a little like science fiction: I'd pick the branches clean in the evening, and the next morning the bushes were again heavy with dark, darkly sweet berries.
I think a more apt name for blackberries would be "scratchberries," or maybe "bloodberries." Here is a plant that, without watering, fertilizing or any other human coddling, bursts forth with ripe, luscious fruit each summer, then challenges you to find its bounty under a camouflage of oversized leaves and viciously pointy thorns, leaving you scraped, punctured and bloody no matter how cautious your reach.
I quickly learned that a long-sleeved shirt, jeans and sneakers are the must-have wardrobe for blackberry picking. My two attempts to pick berries while dressed in shorts and a T-shirt brought in a couple of quarts of berries, a half dozen puffy, itchy bug bites, and arms and legs stippled with red and pink scratches. Yes, I tried it twice before common sense kicked in. For someone as stubborn and impulsive as myself, twice is an exemplary learning curve.
Speaking of learning curves, you may be wondering about the outcome of my summer project, The Civilizing of Indiana Jones. If you recall, I wrote
a column in May outlining my plan to transform Indy, my schnauzer, from a frantic, leash-tugging terror into a model of canine decorum. How goes it, you ask? Pretty darn good!
While he won't be winning any prizes for obedience anytime soon (read: ever), Indy has, under my relentlessly firm but loving guidance, become a pooch who can walk down a sidewalk looking like a normal canine rather than a one-dog riot.
He is still prone to breaking stride and pulling at the first whiff of a fire hydrant, but it only takes one firm “No” from me to slow him back to his measured, albeit brisk, pace.
Indy still tends to go berserk at the sight of another dog on a leash--he pulls, he shrieks, he hurls furious barks that sound like dog swear words--but he is a work in progress, as is the human at the other end of his leash. Together we're learning patience, discipline, and forgiveness. It's a little like being newlyweds, minus the bickering over the checkbook and the T.V. remote.
Goodbye, August. You were a good month this year, smart-aleck orange leaves and all. Thanks for the cooler temperatures--and the blackberries.
September, don't take my disgruntled attitude personally. As a human work in progress, I'm still trying to master accepting endings gracefully. And as my blackberry scratches prove, I'm not the fastest learner.
Deb Pascoe of Marquette is a freelance writer and a peer recovery coach for Child and Family Services of the U.P. A former columnist for The Mining Journal, her book, "Life With a View," a collection of her past columns, is available in area bookstores.