There was a day six months ago that made me wish for a day, six months hence, that would essentially be its opposite. Today is that day.
I will remind myself, six months from now, to not be so melodramatic. I will shut up and eat my pancakes and my pancakes will taste like summer.
When the winter wind screams and old wood groans from the cold, I will think of hot summer air so thick I don’t so much walk as swim slowly from place to place. When my boogers freeze I will remember sweat in my eyes, and when my ears burn from frost I will remember the scorching they got because I was too vain to wear my big floppy hat.
The bears haven’t come down yet, but once they do the season is pretty much over. There won’t be a berry left here when they are through, but we know of other, secret, patches to pick, assuming the bears don’t get there first.
There are those who say wild berries are too small — tedious and not worth the effort or time — prefering instead the domesticated, high bush varieties with fruit big around as dimes. I like those, too, but there is something to be said for things that are small, untamed and hard to find. Blueberries or brook trout, I will side with the scraggly natives every time.
And so it is that, after a few of the hottest hours of the hottest day of the year — spent bent over, dripping sweat and swatting flies, pulling ticks while pawing through grass and brambles and avoiding poison ivy (I hope) — I have to say I probably wouldn’t mind too much if I saw a snow flake or two.
Pardon me while I go powder my thighs.