They say all good things must come to an end.
Do you think they mean summer?
Anyway, the truth is it is almost time for the wheel of seasons to do another spin, spinning us, without further ado, out of summer and into fall.
It’s sad, but predictable, and there is nothing to be done about it except, of course, move to one of those countries where summer lives on forever, hiding fall and winter and spring under a lush foliage of green, nurtured constantly by the sun.
School starts this week and, no doubt, the students will be assigned the inevitable essay of writing about what they did on their summer vacation.
At the risk of sounding somewhat like the immature kid that I really am, the one I keep under wraps and covered up with all this wrinkly mature skin, I have decided to write about my summer, as well.
For me, I think the best thing, the truly great thing about summer, was the colour that gets splashed haphazardly on the canvas of each and every day.
And the wonderful, warm, cozy and consistent heat.
Nice! I so don’t want it to go away.
Anyway, even at my age, when summer camps and empty moments with nothing to do are only illusions of the past, summer, just like always, is kind of like magic.
Perhaps it is because summer seems to bring with it those quick, shining moments gone as quickly as bubbles blown into the air by a child with a tiny wand and a bottle full of liquid detergent.
For me, waterskiing held such a bubble-like moment.
“She’s up,” the occupants of the boat yelled, as I shakily rose out of the water, my feet firmly encased in two skis, a death grip on the rope.
My water-ski was short and sweet and I was happy to sit in the boat later wrapped in a towel almost as wet as me and watch my daughter gracefully maneuver the wake and the boat waves.
But I did it; even though my son said I was almost a hundred years old and it was no wonder it took me so long to put the skis on.
This summer, I did something I have never done before.
I helped tag a turkey vulture.
My goodness, who’d have ever believed it. A few short months ago, I had no idea what a turkey vulture even was.
We tagged the bird in the middle of a field after my turkey vulture-tagging friend brought it out of a building that was, but shouldn’t have been, standing.
Onlookers watching us put the tag on made me squirm uncomfortably (as much as I could squirm while wearing these uncomfortably form-fitting coveralls).
“I have never done this,” I explained to the people with the curious eyes in an undertone.
“City girl,” my friend added, shooting them a conspiratory look.
The bird seemed big and not particularly attractive, but when we were done and we saw another turkey vulture soaring in the sky, almost motionless against the brilliant blue, I had to admit the bird was quite impressive, especially for a city girl such as myself.
The summer was full of lots of perfect bubble-like moments of perfection that somehow have since dissolved into the air like they never happened.
But, still, I know they will keep me warm in the deep, dark days of winter the Farmer’s Almanac predicts are coming.
And that is why I love summer.
This year and every year!