Summer in the Midwest

I go outside into my own backyard. It’s been hot the past few days – mid- to high-90’s with high humidity. This is the Midwestern summer, not the mild heat of the past few months. The outside holds a singing orchestra of cicadas and crickets strumming away. I remember a tape I heard once of cricket scrapes slowed waaay down and the heavenly chorus hidden within these raw, rough-edged scrapes...heaven hidden in plain sound. The trees are filled with the whirs and songs of thousands of little bugs. I like them in the trees but not so much flying around me. The birds are quieter now than in the spring and early summer. Not so many as before. And my singing frogs are silent. But the fullness of the air reverberates with the maturity of summer life. I breathe it in and allow the heat to soak into my skin.

A set of young squirrels are gorging on the nuts in my 150-year old walnut tree. It sits not far outside my back door. They pull the pods off the branch and busily strip the leathery cover off the inner seed and then break the shell to get to the meat. There is a shower of shells dinging and banging on the metal roof of the carport and they carpet the ground. So much debris from such small creatures. The dogs are hesitant to brave the shower, it’s so steady. The squirrels chitter at the dogs, their cheeks stuffed with nuts as they get ready for winter.

The smell of BBQ is in the air...mmmm, steak. My hound’s nose is thrust in the air and her chest heaves as she sniffs the scent. This is our Community Fair weekend and class reunions abound. They are readying the place next door for a evening party and the sounds of keggers, laughter and chairs echo across the yard.

The lavender still blooms, brave stalks standing tall. The mint thrusts its small fuzzy blossoms sideways along the lines of the vines and its leaves release a memory of Southern tea and the Middle East. The petunias put forth new flowers – a riot of pink and purple. The roses glow peach and their scent intoxicates me. I bury my nose in the blooms even as I disengage the thorns from my skin.

I hear the whine of mosquitoes as my skin blooms with moisture. My feet complain about the gravel yet the grass is sweeter for the sharp edges. My hands hold the summer dust, a hint of moisture holding small bits of mulch and dirt to my fingers. The summer heat reminds me of my similarity to the earth and Her glory. All things in their season, Life abounding in the moment of now.

How is your summer?