By: Jefferson Weaver
As the next millionaire in North Carolina argued with the cashier about the price of lottery tickets, beer and discount cigarettes, I realized once again that I hate august. Not my friend who bears that cross as his first name; he’s a good man, and one I’d be proud to have at my back in a fight. That’s a good thing, since the month of August seems to stir the latent violence in everyone.
The word “august” in and of itself is not such a bad thing; indeed, it means “inspiring reverence or admiration; of supreme dignity or grandeur; majestic…venerable.” Ironic, isn’t it, that such a loathsome, disgusting, miserable, repugnant period of time would draw its name from a complimentary term. Just one more reason that I do not like August.
August is typically hotter than other months. I know the meteorological data shows June and July to generally have more days of higher temperatures, with even September sliding a 100 degree day or two in there along the way, but August compiles the misery of the months surrounding it and covers them in a pressure cooker designed to create run-on sentences filled with adverbs, adjectives and awkward analogies, none of which I consider to be good writing.
Whether it’s the humidity or the proximity of the sun or the simple fact that August is essentially evil, I cannot say—but I hate August. August is the only time of the year when I can honestly say it is too hot to fish. True, my beloved big catfish are roaming around, albeit lackadaisically, but they exercise eminently good judgment and hide in the deep water, only becoming active at night. I have no problem with fishing at night, save for the fact that the largest of the year’s mosquitoes – the ones which have managed to survive and adapt to the year’s newest bug-killer—are exceedingly voracious. I hate mosquitoes almost as bad as I hate August.
August used to mean the last moth before the start of school, and a time when we children were released to get the last of our vacation energy out before returning to class after Labor Day. School starts earlier now, so I have to keep an eye on the calendar and make absolutely sure I alter my travel schedule, since there are remarkably more school buses now than when I was a kid, and they all travel at five miles per hour on the hottest days, or so it seems – at least the ones I get behind. This is not a reflection on the school bus drivers, whom I admire and appreciate. It’s just a sign of August.
My hens have largely quit laying, except for the Dominicker who seems to have a working relationship with Nathan, the world’s largest chicken snake. Had Nathan not shown me he is an excellent rat catcher, he would have been a belt and a sandwich by now. However, it’s August, and I don’t want to have to go to the trouble to skin and clean a snake, even a big one with a taste for eggs. I can’t abide killing something just to kill it—although I must admit, the idea is more appealing in August.
The fruits of the woods have largely disappeared by August, so there are no more huckleberries and blackberries to feast upon. The grapes – those that have survived the near-drought – won’t be ready for weeks. Never mind the wild pears and apples. Thankfully, I have friends with gardens and generous natures, since I love to eat. However – it’s generally too dang hot to eat in August, so I often wander around with a growling stomach as well as a growly demeanor. I hate August.
While I am not one who generally has problems sleeping, August causes a chain reaction of effects that make sleep as fleeting as the yarn that knits the raveled sleeve of the day’s care, as Shakespeare put it. Heat and humidity make it impossible to get anything done at the barn or in the yard, hence my mind is still running wide open when I return home at night. Even air conditioning has a hard time keeping up with the satanic heat of August, so I am often sweat-soaked and snappish. Both these conditions make it hard for me to sleep – so I awaken from a fitful slumber more tired than when I went to bed, only to start the whole process over again. I hate August.
August is when I suddenly remember all the things I haven’t managed to do over the summer, and since it’s just too dang hot and still too busy to even run down the whole list, there’s no chance they will get done. But August is short-lived; as the Old Testament writer said, the sorrow may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.
And that morning is the dawn of September, with the start of dove season, cooler temperatures, maybe even a soul-cleansing tropical system. The shoals of blues and jack mackerel will follow the shoals of spots close in shore, and the lucky angler will have not just a cooler full of fresh saltwater fish, but maybe even a glimpse of a whale, a September passing through on the way south or north.
September means the sassafras starts turning gold, meaning the roots are rich with their sweet, pink syrup, the basis for tea and candy. September means church homecomings and family reunions. September means clear skies, where one can count stars shining like little cold reminders of the glorious fall and winter to come. September means flights of ducks and geese, impatient hounds awaiting October, and football at its best level – high school, where the dreams are still big.
Yes, August brings us into September, and all the promises of autumn, but still – I hate August.
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