We're already in the last month of our summer. You've been looking forward to it all year, and when it finally arrives... it flies by, and before you know it, autumn will be here again. The thermometer is still cheerfully hitting thirty degrees Celsius, and the asphalt outside shimmers in the sun. The air hangs heavy and still. There's little wind, and even the birds don't seem to be in the mood today. Now and then, a half-hearted whistle, and sometimes I see the wagtails flying onto the branch we've put in Skipper's dog bath. But that's pretty much all the life I see around me now.
When I took Skipper for a walk this morning, I also noticed something else. There are two impressive chestnut trees in the front garden. Every spring, you see such a large tree full of promise in its fresh green leaves, but now... the first chestnuts are already in the front garden. And I regularly hear the heavy thud of a chestnut falling on the driveway. Spiky green balls, no longer small and soft like two or three months ago. But truly large and round, the real chestnuts. And when I hear and see that, I'm involuntarily reminded even more of autumn, which draws closer every day.
When I look out the window across the street, just across the ditch, I see the potato field. A few months ago, it was still lush green in neat rows; now it's dry and wilted. All the green above the earth is dried out, and it smells of dry earth as you walk past. For these plants, the work is already done. They're waiting for the machines that will soon pull all the mature potatoes out of the ground. And harvest, that means summer has done its work.
Around my house, except for the front, is the corn. Tall and dense. The plumes at the top turn gold in the sunlight, as if they're trapping light. A sweet, dusty scent hangs in the air as the wind blows through it. You can hear it rustling, a soft, undulating sound. That'll stay there for a while longer; it gets bruised in September/October, and every year, it's something I enjoy again when it starts. Not because I have to do it myself, but because it's quite spectacular to watch. Until then, this is the kind of corn you'd want to walk into and create a sort of maze. To just disappear for a while. To shut out the world and let it be. Even if only for a moment.
We still have a few walnut trees in our side garden. And the past few years haven't been good for the nuts. This year seems to be doing better. The branches hang heavy, full of thick, green balls. Still in their jackets, but the first black spots reveal that they're almost ready. It'll take a while, but they're on their way, and even though summer will truly be over when the walnuts fall, I can't help but look forward to that too. It's so delicious... fresh walnuts!
Even though every season, including the approaching autumn, has its charms, I still want to enjoy summer. Maybe it's all happening now because I'm looking around extra carefully. Not entirely unconsciously, though. It's because I know that real summer won't last much longer here. In a few weeks, in September, we'll probably have a beautiful Indian summer, but then it'll be over. Then come the days with rain beating against the windows, sweaters you pull out of the closet, evenings that get dark far too early. That has its charm, but this... this warm, soft light... the smell of warm earth... the rustle of corn in the wind... You miss it as soon as it's gone.
I'm going outside again with Skipper in a bit. Not so much to do much, but just to enjoy what's here. Maybe with a book. Maybe just to listen. To the soft thud of a falling chestnut. The occasional bird whistling. Skipper is digging a bit more in the hole he's been working on for several days now. These sounds will be replaced by entirely different ones in a month. With a bit of bad luck, all I'll hear then is the tapping of rain on the windows, and I'll have to imagine myself on vacation to sunnier climes to keep my spirits up.
Right now, it's still the height of summer. And I want to capture it. Not necessarily with photos, but in that corner of my memory where sounds, smells, and colors linger. So that, sometime in January, when the wind howls past the house, I can briefly return to now. To this warm day, this languid light, and a feeling that summer will never end.
