Indian Summer, a racially insensitive name for such a wonderful phenomenon. But, whatever you call it, it is here and it is wonderful. All too brief, Indian Summer is the much appreciated last gasp of summer before the cold dead breath of winter blows upon us for the next, oh, eternity.
We mid westerners make hay during Indian Summer... literally and figuratively. The outdoor furniture gets "put up" as we are fond of saying, the grill goes into the garage, closest to the door so that if we get one of those rare nice Thanksgivings, we can pull it out easily, the classic car gets put on blocks and covered, the hose gets purged and rolled away, storm windows replace screens and the cutesy little bric-a-brac thing your wife puts in the fire place gets replaced with real wood.
The changing of the seasons in the wild wild mid west heralds harshness. Cut your wood now, English, or you will be burning Great Ganny's credenza before the first snow fall. Even the lazy amongst us, (yes, I AM talking about me), realize it is now or never and are forced to move, however begrudgingly to get these things done.
It is a matter of some importance. Last year, for instance, I forgot to purge the water line to my outside spigot. In doing so, I knocked out the use of an entire bathroom all winter, flooded my basement a little and cost myself a hundy to have that valve replaced. Ahem... replaced... again.
This is no foolin' type of stuff. As we do this, the neighbors all laugh and talk and wave goodbye. Hopefully, we say, for the whole winter, for the only thing that brings us together in the winter is a big snow. Big snows bring the neighborhood together. Doors get knocked on to make sure people aren't starving, cold or dead. Gangs of people help shovel drives and get cars out of their heavy white ensconcements. Hasty potlucks are organized. If you do it right, the main course is booze and a card game. The food is incidental if you are properly focused. beside, if it's a late winter snow storm, a little starvation is usually just what the doctor ordered since we all look like bloated pasty dough oozing out of our sweaters by that time.
Indian Summer reminds me that again I did nothing to fix my drafty windows all summer. I was too busy keeping busy. I do all my living in the 8 months of the year that isn't snow covered. during the 4 months of doom I can be found in the corner rocking in the fetal position murmuring incantations to any god or demon who will hear me beseeching them. Would I sell my soul for a warm winter? A dozen times over, yes!
But, here, in Indian Summer, the 70 degrees and sun belie what is coming in the distance. The grass is deeply green, the fall colors are just beginning to pop and it is, in a word, perfect. In fact it's perfect to work on windows to make them more weather fast. Not gonna happen. I'm far too busy for that. But, if I weren't, now would be perfect.
In fact, we really should move Halloween to the first week of October, because historically, trick-or-treating is done with fat coats over costumes and umbrellas to deal with the cold rain that almost always falls here near Halloween. It's like a million little Gene Kellys wandering the streets with pillow cases. I am certain that no baby sized Butterfinger is worth hypothermia, but then again, I am not a kid.
Tonight after work, we are taking one last sojourn in the Corvette for ice cream and a little color tour. Not too long since we have to pack for a long, long weekend away from home. we have to clean the house before our house sitter gets here so she doesn't know we live the way we do. We're not close enough for full disclosure just yet.
I reckon Indian Summer is a little like the small rocky islands off Newfoundland that trickled slowly away as Charles Lindbergh gently climbed and made his way slowly east, ever closer to the middle of the frosty, unforgiving north Atlantic, where there were no rocks, no chance of survival at all if it all went tits up. Each island must have felt like a last chance for refuge. Each one an opportunity to feel safe one last time.
And so it is with the days of ever decreasing length. Each one a siren song begging to be visited upon forever. Each one passing by below, just out of reach, until finally, the last one passes by underneath. And you are on your own.
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