In winter, we inevitably hit a point somewhere around February that we’ve been “all scrunched up in this house together” as Eliza so eloquently put it once. All possible art creations have been created, all manner of indoor gymnastics routines have lost their luster. And what’s left isn’t always pretty.
It occurs to me that there is a summer version of this movie and its playing, big and wide, on the drive-in at our house. It’s called August.
By August we’ve floated rivers with breathtaking views, we’ve camped under the stars in places some people only see in magazines. We’ve fished, we’ve picked up rock after rock and practiced skipping until the sun sets. We’ve paraded, potlucked and summer camped. We’ve creeked, biked and cooked dinners in kitchens warm with the summer heat. We wring every last possibility out of summer around here because it’s short, because we’ve waited so long for it. As wise ranchers have known since they starting haying these valley fields, you’ve got to make hay while the sun is shinning and we do. Oh, we do. <Read More>