August got here somehow, without neither my notice nor my consent. I was shocked the other day when DF mentioned its being the eighth month of the calendar. Seems just the other day it was summer solstice.
Then again, time has become weirdly fluid since the pandemic began, and especially since the pandemic killed my dad. Some months feel endless and others disappear almost without a trace.
This has been an odd, mostly cool summer save for a stretch of high-70s and at least one 80-degree day. The thermometer in the illustration is on my niece’s back porch – and it was in the shade. Obviously people in the Lower 48 are struggling with much hotter temperatures. All I can say is that 80 degrees up here feels hotter than it sounds.
Today it’s supposed to hit the low 70s. This morning DF and I did our usual tour of the back yard, to water greenhouse plants if needed, check on the progress of the plants and see if there are any strawberries we could have for breakfast. That’s another weirdness about summer up here: We get strawberries into late summer, whereas when I was a kid the berries were finished by early June.
The berries here are bigger, too:
The sun was warm (it was almost 60 degrees at that point), and the gentle breeze lifted up all sorts of fragrances. Not sure how much actual aroma can be had from fireweed, poppies, and pea and strawberry blossoms but taken together with big swatches of clover, they made an irresistible and intoxicating mix. I smelled growth. Life. Sustenance.











