Arthur Rothstein: Corn withered by the heat and chewed by grasshoppers. Terry, Montana (1936)

" … Grace even within this seeming wasteland."

By August, the surface of this valley becomes burnished buff beige. The days start growing noticeably shorter, though they each nonetheless seem endless. On nights when the outside temperature can't even fall below seventy, The Muse opens up the house before she slips into bed when it's still hotter than eighty outside. I wake from fitful sleep to flip my sweaty pillow before finally surrendering to wee-hour wakefulness again. Nights seem no less interminable than days. The cats don't even bother to come inside those nights. They return listless in the morning to leave half their breakfasts uneaten. They hug cool pavement or find a soggy corner of the lawn to lounge on. I envy their soggy corner.

Our basement provides the only respite. The Muse escaped down there through yesterday afternoon's heat to sit in cool dark and watch a movie. I opted to stay upstairs, gingerly stepping out into the four o'clock afternoon, my first excursion of the day. I'd spent hours lounging beneath a hyperactive ceiling fan with the shades tightly drawn. She disappeared a few times out into the furnace, over a hundred again, and hazy, smoke and cloud cover too stingy to surrender more than the odd drop of moisture. The deck plants get watered every morning or afternoon. Miss a day, and they desiccate into hay.

Weeds thrive in this weather. A drop of moisture encourages them to spread. I crouch over gardens when setting sprinklers, pulling mallow up to clear their long tap root. I return inside with a handful of averted trouble. Another generation will come of age by that time tomorrow. I ration my attention, smothering most intentions before they get the better of me. I build a backlog of chores, ones I cannot tackle with high temperatures. The very idea of stepping outside exhausts me most mornings. If I dawdle until nine, the morning's already slipped away from me, and the afternoon's not far behind. We close the house back up again when the outside temperature tops eighty, usually just about nine. We draw our shades and avert our eyes from the blinding sunlight. Lunchtime comes and goes with no takers.

Just this minute, a rainstorm began. The street turned that glossy tar black, and that first moisture in months’ scent overtook me. I might not need to set a single sprinkler this morning, the first such morning since May. Today, it might not hit a hundred; if the sky holds at ninety-five, I swear it might feel like Spring again. I hibernate more productively in January, for July and August do not seem able to refresh regardless of the hours slumbered. The sweaty pillow, clammy shirt, blinding light, and screen door I cannot touch without scorching my hand conspire to leave me tired and too exhausted to even think about accomplishing anything. It's all I can imagine doing most mornings to set my two-and-a-half typing fingers to keys.

My skin seems to smile as a delicate scent of moisture slips in through the window. I feel more empowered after months of active evapotranspiration. It's a wonder I have an ounce of moisture left in me. I feel dehydrated inside as if my heart and soul have shriveled into something resembling shoe leather. I have become toughened by this summer and weakened by the weather. This summer of my discontent has been little different. When I was young, I'd flee to the swimming pool to cool down. Now, I cower in my basement. My lazy, hazy, crazy summer days seem mostly just lazy now. I envy the cats' soggy corner of the lawn. There must be Grace even within this seeming wasteland. I'll take every ounce of rain this unforgiving sky can spare.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Grace, #PureSchmaltz