August 18, 2021
We used to call the middle of
August the “dog days of summer”. I never knew what that meant, growing up.
Being a somewhat linear thinker at times, I made simple connections. I figured
this time of the year was called the dog days of summer because this was the
time of year you would sweat like a dog, it was so hot.
But while I claim to have been
a linear thinker as a teenager/young woman, I wasn’t very good at it. Because
dogs sweat through their tongues. It was hot enough some Augusts to have your
tongue hanging out and to want to pant. But I can’t say with any real assurance
that was something that I did, necessarily.
Now I know they’re called “dog
days” because this is the time of year that the sun is in the same region of
the sky as is Sirius, the brightest star and a part of the constellation of Canis
Major, the Greater Dog.
Huh, who knew, right?
Well, it has been hot a lot of
days, and I am being a bit of a stubborn old woman, but I don’t see any real
reason why I have to subject myself to that. The heat of outside, that is. I
have gone out and sat on my front porch for a few minutes most days. I have
stepped into my back yard and looked over the produce growing like gangbusters
in our table gardens.
And the coleus! Holy cow, I
have never seen that plant grow the way it’s growing in our back yard this
year. My daughter planted a line of it in the very back of the lower yard, in a
narrow garden we put in against the retaining wall comprised of old railroad
ties. In front and sort of between the coleus, she planted some impatiens. She’s
reported to me that they are now gone, completely edged out by the taller, broader,
leafier plants.
It's hard to mind, because
they are beautiful, and this year so lush. But because she said that I did
wonder, so I went out to the back yard and took a picture. I could see three
surviving impatiens, and all things considered, that’s pretty good.
Lately, I’ve been quipping to both
my husband and my daughter that I never, ever intended to live in a rain
forest. This year, with the heat and the near constant rain, it feels to me as
I imagine it would feel to be in a rain forest. And yes, perhaps I am
overstating things a shade (and pardon the pun). But seriously, I can only
report how it feels to me, and this year, the out-of-doors at this point in
time does not feel like a place that appeals to me at all. It does not feel
like a place I want to be.
So here I am, in the house,
laughing at myself because I am cool, and sometimes a bit too cool. I go into
my living room to spend some time each day in my recliner with my legs up, because
it helps my arthritis (allegedly). And because we have the a/c on, and it
causes a draft as it blows out the ducts, I have a blanket over my legs to
protect them. And because along with that, I have a sweater on to protect my
arms and shoulders from that same draft, I now present the portrait of the
quintessential old woman, in summer: huddling under a blanket, looking old and
cold.
Sometimes, friends, I just
crack myself right up.
I know I’m not really entitled
to call myself an old woman. I am, after all, only 67. And while yes, it really
is the mileage and not the years, lately I’ve slowed my pace so as not to
accumulate much in the way of mileage. I spend my days, for the most part,
doing what I want to do. Lucky for me I don’t tend to want to do anything out
in left field, or off the charts.
Arthritis doesn’t tend to do
well in either of those locations or situations.
I will take a moment here to
acknowledge that I don’t for the most part much care for the fact that this
affliction seems to more and more and with each passing day define me. I am in
a great deal of pain for a lot of the time, most days, but I keep my mind
focused on other things. Sometimes I do difficult puzzles on this computer of
mine because that helps get my mind off the pain. I refuse to take any more
medication than is absolutely necessary and I use a topical balm that has CBD
oil in it, as that helps to take the edge off, too. But it is what it is, and
while I still push myself, the zenith of my arc of accomplishment is shrinking.
Getting older is not for the
faint of heart.
I worked outside of the home
for about thirty years of my life, earned a living and raised my family. I’ve
given to others when I could, volunteered when I felt compelled, and have
tried, in all circumstances, to be kind to other people. I’m no saint, far from
it. I’ve always had a temper but have not always necessarily known how to use
it to best advantage. To those who have known me for a time and will dispute
that last point, I should in all fairness point out that my fuse is rather
long. But long, in my case most certainly does not equal infinite.
When I was younger and would
hear others complain about those who were older, doing this or that or even, heaven
help us all, the other thing, I would be consistent in my response. I would
declare that senior citizens had paid their dues, built this country we are
blessed to live in, and should therefore damn well be able to do whatever the
hell they choose to do.
In all the years since first
uttering that opinion to this moment, that is one of the few things in my life
upon which I have never changed my mind.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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