There are hints autumn will arrive early this year and that winter might be long and hard: a few yellowing leaves high in the canopy of the cottonwoods, an abundance of chokecherries and wild plums, the long call of geese and ducks, already flocking up.
Last week was the beginning of the new school year. “You need a sweater!” I told the kids the first day. “It’s chilly this morning.”
By week’s end, they were back to tank tops and shorts as the temperature soared to 100 degrees. “You’re lucky your school has air conditioning!” their dad joked.
The heat wave didn’t last long. Today, it feels like full-fledged autumn. The morning was cool, and despite a blue, cloudless sky, it has remained that way.
We already know how it goes from here: Each day the dawn will come a little later, the dusk a little earlier and the cold that follows the darkness will creep its way steadily into the light as well, until one morning it’s not just chilly but cold. The sun will shine just as brightly, but hold no warmth.
We will forget how it feels to run barefoot through green grass, the swirling heat of summer slipping over our skin.
Thick, zippered coats, woolen socks and snow boots will replace those castoff sweaters.
No one knows this better than the flowers and the grasses. This year, the field next to our house was seeded with sunflowers. All summer, the sunflowers stretched their sturdy stalks skyward, blazing green against the brown dirt. The petals are now fully unfurled, a symphony of yellow amidst the emerald.
But soon, the faces of the sunflowers will dip back toward the earth. Beyond the field, the wild hills are finally turning brown as well, what’s left for the cattle to eat already drying to stands of hay. Everything is getting quieter.
It is a kind of homecoming, this journey toward winter. Finding again the familiar hearth and the solemnity of long, cold and dark nights, the prairie slumbering beneath soil in roots and seeds.
For me, it also feels like a literal homecoming. This summer, I drove to and from Montana and Wyoming twice, across the state of South Dakota, with a few jaunts to North Dakota and back and forth from Duluth, Minnesota.
This kind of travel is part of my yearly rhythm. We are homebound three seasons a year, but I make up for it during the hottest months.
Summer is when I get to remember why I loved being a full-time touring musician, and also when I get to remember why I stopped.
The two summers previous to this one, however, I was dealing with illness and a bizarre parade of car-related drama, and didn’t travel as much as usual.
One incident from that time sticks out in particular: Heading to a show in Sioux Falls, I saw a deer step into the road just as the dawn broke. I was inches away from it being a near miss, but those inches were enough to mean that instead of continuing to drive, I was left on the side of the highway watching the sun come up.
When I called the promoter to tell him there was no way I was going to make it to Sioux Falls in time for the show, he was very gracious. “Maybe the universe is trying to send you a message,” he added nonchalantly.
“It sure seems that way, doesn’t it?” I replied.
This summer had its own dramatic flair (mostly weather-related), but I made it everywhere I needed to be without any harm coming to myself, wild animals or the vehicles I was driving, so it does feel like the universe is no longer telling me to stay home, and for that, I am thankful.
It was a great summer, but now, the garden is reminding me of my other responsibilities in the form of a few hundred almost ripe tomatoes. I am happy to accommodate. Happy to discover again that the best roads are the ones that lead you home… and to homegrown tomatoes.
