by Freida Marie Crump
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Greetin’s from the Ridge.
Herb allows as how I’m contrary by nature. He keeps tellin’ me that I purposely devise my opinions by seein’ which way the wind is blowin’ then intentionally walkin’ against the breeze. And as usual, he’s wrong.
I’ve heard this all week as kids have headed back to school. "Gosh, where did summer go?" and "Summer’s just too short," and "I wish it could be summer all year long!" Makes me shake my head in wonder. What on earth could make anyone want to prolong a Midwest summer? I guess it’s the same mentality that makes folks go to Miami in July. It feels so good when it’s all over.
In the first place, we’re not at our best in summer. The heat makes us grouchy and the costuming gets revealin’ to the point of embarrassment.
There’s nothin’ more revoltin’ than the sight of white knees gleamin’ in the sun under pale blue knee shorts. Face it, there are certain ages and certain quirks of anatomy that should scare some of us from the short-wearin’ brigade forever.
Despite what you’ve heard, the truth will not always make you free.
Sometimes it just ruins you forever. I know folks that are happy, well adjusted and just downright attractive… all winter. My imagination has dealt me the gift of ignorance as to their lower extremities and I’ve assumed that whatever’s comely and beautiful on top is as naturally agreeable below. Then they put on shorts. Makes me shudder and moan, "Come, oh winter!"
Our disposition wilts in the heat of August and what should rightfully be a minor disagreement can boil to a friendship-bustin’ pitch once the heat comes on. I am not naturally prone to road rage nor checkout lane hysteria. But you let the air conditioner go on the fritz and you’ll have one irate cruiser on your hands. Let ‘er snow!
Which brings me to bugs. How in the world an otherwise sane person could stand there extollin’ the virtues of summer with every manner of crawlin’, creepin’ and flyin’ beast dive-bomin’ their ears and crawlin’ up their pantlegs is beyond me. I’m of a notion that the newest generation of agricultural insecticides hasn’t killed a single critter.
They’ve just sent ‘em packin’ for my backyard. I’ve never seen such a buggy summer in my life, and have you noticed how the bugs have started gettin’ bigger? Our neighbor used to have a basset hound named Dave who’d sit on their front porch and lazily swat the horseflies that pestered him. Dave’s dead now. It’s my theory that the bugs finally grew big enough to whup him.
And it’s little help to stay indoors. By August, the TV networks are beginnin’ to re-run their re-runs. I was sittin’ watchin’ the tube last night and thought to myself, "Shoot, I’ve seen this show before!" It was the nightly news from the White House! Good grief!
Our congregation’s piano player, Wayne Bradley, has taken to wearin’ his open-toed sandals to church. A man’s bare feet in the house of the Lord! To my mind, the Holy Spirit and hairy toes are at ecumenical odds.
I just can’t stand there singin’ "For the Beauty of the Earth" lookin’ at Wayne’s bare toes beatin’ on the sustain pedal.
Gimme a spring mornin’ any day. I don’t care if there’s still frost on grass, at least you can breathe. And what can compare to one of those nose-nippin’ evenin’s in late October when the air’s been cleared enough of the humidity that you can actually smell the world around you? Okay, so you gotta wear a jacket. It won’t kill you. You can always put on another layer but in mid-July there’s a limit to what I can take off and still maintain my post on the church’s Fellowship Committee.
Even winter has its charms if you’re properly insulated. I happen to carry my own BTU’s around with me so I’m built to withstand just about anything a Midwest winter can throw at me. But even the wormiest of us can surely huddle up to somethin’ warm and cozy. Anything huddles up to me in this weather and it had better duck. It’s just too hot.
My neighbor Edna Sweatman was bemoanin’ the heat and humidity one day last week. She said, "Freida, how in the world did we make it without air conditioning?"
To me, the answer was simple, "We didn’t, Edna. Lots of us died." Bemoan the loss of summer all you want. I’ll be hunkered down beside my Amana window unit watchin’ reruns of White Christmas. Once the first leaves start turnin’, I’ll come join your silly chirpin’s about the Midwest weather.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.