One leaf at a time

I'm nursing a resentment against leaves.
Not the emerald green leaves fluttering above me on the trees; no, it's the quitters I begrudge, the crispy orange-brown defectors already scattered across the sidewalks, crunching under my sneakers as I walk with my dog Indy.
That's August for you, though. August, the hand at your back pushing reluctant you toward September, the end of summer. August has never been my friend. As a child it meant the end of schedule-free days spent reading, playing Barbies and riding my bike, and a return to school, where I was an awkward, uncomfortable misfit.
As an adult it meant folding my own children back into the routine of early to bed, early to rise, juice boxes, clean socks and homework.
This year August will mark my younger daughter's departure for college in Minnesota. I've been trying to imagine what it's going to feel like to hug her goodbye and leave her behind, an eight-hour drive away. I happen to be blessed with an Academy Award-worthy imagination, but I still can't picture how that's going to feel.
But about those leaves. Yesterday I woke for the day at 6:30 a.m., an unprecedented event for a Saturday. I took Indy for a walk down by the lake and saw the pink sun morph into white, felt the cool breeze surrender to warmer, humid air. A perfect summer morning, of not for those accursed leaves.
"Look at this," I grumbled to Indy, who ignored me. He doesn't share my distaste for the premature leaf drop. To him it's just one more interesting thing on the ground to sniff. I looked up, thought I spotted an orange patch on a neighbor's tree, and felt my heart give its familiar pre-autumn sink.
Then, mercifully, my recovery thinking kicked in - specifically, One Day at a Time.
It's still summer, I reminded myself. It's going to be beach day. At this moment in time all is well. You're walking your four-legged best friend on a stellar summer morning. There's a fresh pot of coffee waiting at home, where your three beautiful children lie sleeping, all together under your roof for a little while longer. You're going to hang out with friends today. This day is all you're promised. Don't waste it mourning the chillier, leafier days that haven't arrived yet.
Fall is on the horizon, and winter not far behind it. But today, today I am alive and well, I'm barefoot, and my windows are wide open, with a fine summer breeze wafting in.
Rather than nurse a resentment, I'm going to sit on my porch and nurse an icy glass of lemonade. Just for today, it's summer!

Farewell, June-tober

And so we bid farewell to June-tober. I know we've had damp, dreary Junes in other years, but I've blanked them out of my mind, which makes this the dampest, dreariest June in my memory.
But give us Yoopers credit: When the calendar says summer, we live summer. Children gallop up and down soccer fields in sweatshirts and mud-caked shoes. Dogs are walked under sullen gray skies, their coats soggy, their owners shivering. Families pile into RVs and pour into campgrounds, parents sticking close to the fire, kids running themselves as sweaty as they'd be if the sun were blazing down. We line up at Frosty Treats, cold-reddened hands wrapped around ice cream cones or waxy milkshake cups. It's the principle of the thing.
That's the true U.P. spirit. But believe me, under that spirit lurked one hell of a lot of disgruntled Yoopers yearning for sunshine.
Resentment is a luxury alcoholics cannot afford. That's a little something I was taught - repeatedly - throughout my 28 years in recovery. Note that I said I learned it; I didn't say I always practice it.
By about mid June-tober my Yooper stoicism had given way to a festering, unreasonable, childish resentment. By God, I waited all freaking winter for June's arrival. I wanted my sunshine! I wanted my beach days! I wanted to pull on a pair of shorts, peel my humidity-curled hair off the back of my damp neck and sip an ice cube-filled glass of lemonade.
The unrelenting 50-something degree days began to feel like a personal insult. I developed an irrational hatred of all meteorologists. I checked The Weather Channel online and on TV several times each day, like a Wall Street trader checking the Dow Jones index.
I'm usually big on gratitude. I tried correcting my sour attitude with thoughts of the violent weather and wildfires tormenting much of the rest of the U.S. At least we're safe, I reminded myself. Cold, wet and deprived of sunshine, but safe. But as you may recall, I did describe this as an unreasonable, childish resentment. Reality tends not to be the cure for the irrational.
What finally cured me was the inevitable: The sun came out and the temperature rose. I pulled on my bathing suit and went to the beach with a couple of my friends. The sand was a patchwork of bright beach towels. Children ran into the water and quickly out again, shrieking at the cold. Adults either basked in the long-awaited warmth or waded into the water themselves for a quick dip.
All this joy, and the temperature never broke 80. The wind was, in fact, a tad cool. When goosebumps rose on my arms I pulled on a T-shirt, then tipped my face upward - grateful for the sunshine and able, finally, to make the best of a less than perfect summer day.

Fall in!

Melissa and I were finishing a late supper when I looked out the kitchen window and said, "Uh oh, I don't think we'll be walking the dogs tonight. We're going to get a storm."
"Mom, it's not going to storm. It's dark because it's nighttime."
OK, so did you know that one major characteristic of alcoholics is denial? And deny I did.
"It can't be dark out yet. It's too early. We're getting a storm."
"Check the Weather Channel," Melissa said confidently.
"I will!" I blustered.
Approximately 15 seconds later my bluster was crushed by the unarguable logic of the stupid Weather Channel radar. And the listing of sunrise and sunset times.
But denial doesn't die that easily. "How can it be getting dark so early? It's only..."
Only almost October. Right.
So Indy and I set out for a walk under a cloudless indigo sky and the nightlight glow of our wonderful old globe-shaped streetlights. The air was cool, soft and sweetened with the scent of dry leaves. Indy was wildly impatient to get under way, having watched Melissa and Saira (her beagle) set out full minutes ahead of us, so the first few blocks were spent trying to hold him to a reasonable pace and pausing to scoop up his, uh, expressions of excitement.
When Indy finally slowed to a brisk, forward-leaning trot, I had time to marvel at how quickly summer had yielded to fall. One day it was 90 degrees, the next day it was 60. This was no gradual change of seasons. Maybe that's why I'm still reeling.
Walking in the fall is 180 degrees different than walking on summer evenings. The streets are quiet. No kids biking, skateboarding, or chasing one another across fresh green lawns. People have their lights on, which I appreciate, because I like to glance into houses as I walk past. Every home is a story being written, a complex history as rich and full as our own. It's easy to forget that everyone is the star of their own play. Those cursory glances at what other people are watching on TV, or what they choose to hang on their walls, reminds me that my life is one molecule in a picture too big for tiny me to comprehend. And I find that comforting.
Walking in the night awakens a particular loneliness I can't imagine a cure for. I'm not lonely for any one person or any particular place. This loneliness evaporates the minute I see my house waiting, welcoming, in the near distance.
I miss summer, but it's kind of a relief to see it end. Summer always yanks at my sleeve, reminding me that unless I'm at the beach or licking an ice cream cone or walking with Indy, I am wasting valuable, fleeting moments of an all to short season. DO SOMETHING! Summer yells.
Fall, on the other hand, says, "Relax. Check out those beautiful leaves. Pull on a warm sweater and curl up with a good book."
Summer is a small, yappy dog who's a lot of fun but wears you out. Fall is a big, gentle mutt, content to meander and take frequent naps.
Lucky for we who live in a place with distinct seasons, we get to enjoy the company of both.

Sliding into summer

And so the long, lazy summer slide begins.
I usually reserve Sunday mornings for housecleaning. Nothing industrial, just your basic tidying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting. I preface this burst of domesticity with several cups of coffee, the Sunday paper, and the gently thought-provoking "Sunday Morning" on CBS.
Yesterday I had the coffee, the paper, the show, but the cleaning was limited to washing a few dishes and giving the downstairs a cursory pass with the broom. Several passes, actually, as small clumps of sand and dust exert some strange magnetic force on my dogs and cats, drawing them ever nearer, and eventually straight through, even the tiniest accumulation of floor ick. Thus, I often sweep the same area several times, racing to get it into the dustpan before paws big and small trounce through.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the vacuum. I found myself not caring an awful lot whether or not my carpets were clean. I set aside the vacuum (for later, I dutifully promised myself) and sat down at the computer.
I blame summer. Even though Sunday's weather - overcast, rainy, downright chilly - didn't feel summery in the least, just knowing it's June seemed excuse enough to choose recreation over housework.
Summer encourages you to kick off your shoes, pull on a T-shirt and ditch those claustrophobic winter blues. Hey, summer says lazily, what's the rush? The housework will still be there tomorrow, but life is short and so am I. Come enjoy me while I last! Who are we to argue? Beach days, barbecues and trips to the ice cream stand are short-term pleasures for Yoopers. Carpe sunblock! Cast aside your to-do lists! Revel in the long days of sunshine, the tangy smell of cut grass, the muggy, starry nights. Better to celebrate with wild abandon than to look back and regret that you didn't. The broom, the rake, the paintbrush, they'll wait.
As if in cosmic agreement with my summer state of mind, by lunchtime the clouds had departed, the sun was beaming down and the temperature inched up to bearable.
And while you're out there reveling, pay attention. Flare your nostrils and breathe in the sweet damp scent of blossoming flowers. You'll look a little goofy, but it's worth it. Don't be afraid to get a little silly. Run down the bike path - not jog, run, like a joyful little kid. Wade into the lake and splash a little when you're walking along the shore. Skip a few rocks. Buy yourself an extra large ice cream cone and ignore the drips on your shirt.
Grab hold of summer and squeeze the bejeebers out of it. Kiss it full on the mouth. You're alive and it's beautiful outside. Fling aside boring grown-uphood and embrace Mother Nature's limited time offer. See you at the lake.