The Last Day of Summer

Sunday, September 16.  80 degrees Fahrenheit.  We had just returned  from a long walk in the woods, and the pond felt soooo refreshing.

Summer is short in the Copper Country, and it carries a burden that none of the other three seasons carry - it is a time to do all the things that during the winter  you dreamed about doing when summer finally came.  This is an unrealistic expectation of any season, but it really can't be helped.  You need to dream about warmth and sunshine during the cold gray days of January.  As usual I only do about half the things I planned to do, but in hindsight I realize that I did many other things that were unplanned.  A totally planned life is no life at all. We need to stand up to our own inner tyrant once in awhile, and take each day as it comes without feeling that we have to wring the most out of it.

So, in some ways it is liberating to know that you are experiencing the last day of summer.  The pressure is off.  There is no longer time to do all the things you planned to do in the summer.  Fall is on the doorstep. Tomorrow the weather will be turning colder.  So what do you do?  Nothing at all.  You just kick back on an air mattress and feel the sun hot on your skin and watch the clouds, and a few turkey vultures, overhead.  No plans, no goals, just experience the delicious moment  and soak up the vitamin D.

A great blue heron showed up soon after we had left the pond.

A couple of days ago I had an experience which I wish I could bottle and relive.  Here's the story.  When we paddled our canoe from our campsite at Wolf Point, the morning was a bit chilly, the beach was in shadows and the wind began to pick up.   Soon  we were bobbing in growing swells, nothing serious, but as we sank into the deeper troughs I began to feel dryness in my mouth and a creepy feeling in my gut.  When we finally pulled into the mouth of the river I was relieved to get off the lake.

When we got home it was warm, sunny and calm.  I went for a swim in the pond, and as I was looking toward the bright yellow sunflowers by our chicken coop three words came to me that described the moment.  SMALL.  WARM.  SECURE.  At that moment I think I appreciated our little homestead in a way that I have never experienced it before.