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08/19/2021 12:01 AM“See that?” she says. “The light is changing.”
“No, it’s not,” I reply with a smile.
Mom looks over and smiles back. “The light is changing and it’s getting dark a little earlier,” she continues.
“No, it’s not,” I repeat.
It’s August. This is one of my favorite months because it’s still full-on summer. It’s when the busyness of June calms down and the heat of July mellows, if only slightly. Laziness takes on respectability. It’s still too hot to do much. Best to sit back in a chair outside with an iced tea or a gin and tonic. It’s August, but the light isn’t changing yet.
Ah, denial. The hallmark of the last full month of summer.
When I was a kid, I never knew the exact time that July slid away like a cat burglar slipping out of a window. Summers were languid and long. I didn’t know what day of the week it was, much less the month. Nowadays kids have books to read and projects and math problems all summer long. I was lucky. I had swimming and bugs to catch and games of hide-n-seek. Mud caked my feet and I sometimes forgot to wash it off. By August I had long forgotten the sound of bells and the smell of chalk. School had become an abstract concept. In August I didn’t waste time worrying about September. I went about my days like September never existed.
As an adult I can’t just forget that it’s Monday and I have to go to work. I can’t run in the dirt and forget to wash it off. But then again, maybe in a way I can.
As I get ready for my August vacation, the news is growing worrisome again. COVID-19 cases are rising, and restrictions are returning. I throw a bunch of masks into my suitcase. I put hand sanitizer in my beach bag. I don’t know what the fall will bring, so I decide to do as I did as a child when I was wading through muck and poison ivy. I opt to enter a state of August denial.
I decide to forget that work is piling up on my desk and bills are gathering in my mailbox like vermin. I resolve to drive around with sand on my feet and salt in my hair. I’ll spend as much time as I can outside. If it’s not storming, causing the hair to stand up on my arms and the air to crackle from an impending thunderstrike, I won’t be inside a building at all. I don’t mind wearing a mask inside. I just don’t want to be inside.
In August when I was a kid, I lived on what I now think of as “summer food.” Some of it was good for me, most of it was not. I didn’t think about it either way. I just ate what I wanted when I wanted it. On vacation I’ll pretend that my doctor would approve of fries with every meal. I’ll forget that milkshakes have calories and none of the “good” fat. On vacation, hot dogs are health food and anything deep fried is wholesome.
I figure that if I want to read until the wee hours of the morning, I can do so and not worry about what time I need to get up. I don’t have to set an alarm on vacation. Growing up I’d be awake well past midnight every night in summer. I was basically nocturnal. Like a bat.
When I finally do go on vacation, I manage to make good on my promises. I spend as much time as possible outside, eat fried food, and read late into the night. I dance in the sun. I get sand on my feet and don’t wipe it off before I get in the car.
As I hang out with my friends on a Rhode Island beach, it hits me. August is more than the last full month of summer. My epic bout of denial spurred on by reading scary news reports and wanting to go back to a calmer, gentler time says it all. August is a mindset.
Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.