Even for those whose roots sink most deeply into the salty seacoast soil and whose lives blossom under the heat of a coastal sun, it is a truth tinged with bitter irony. Despite being so eagerly anticipated throughout the dark night of dormancy, despite being so deeply desired, so coveted for its beauty, the longed-for season of summer inevitably ends as a season of imprisonment.
When implacable heat and humidity begin to rise, the pleasures of earlier and more temperate summer days begin their slow devolution into a world of languid passivity. A monotony of cicadas melds with the metallic hum of air conditioners. Unrelenting tendrils of lassitude twist and entwine their way into the heart’s smallest crevice, choking off energy and joy.
As the long days pass without relief, windows close. Neighbors disappear. Birds grow silent. The stray, limping dog with the friendly demeanor and the scar encircling his foreleg no longer prowls the fenceline at night, and the indolent cats seem not to breathe. Seeing one on the stoop, under the car or – there! behind the trash bin! -gives pause. “Look at that,” says the casual observer. ”Is that thing alive?”
Out in the country, where customs are slower to change, beds are pulled onto sleeping porches, or pulled out even farther to rest under shadowy, star-stopping oaks. For the fortunate there are summer kitchens and expansive galleries that allow porch-sitters to flutter west to east, south to north, seeking the breeze.
For others, there is only the soft susurration of fans, muffled by draperies drawn over draperies, layers of imagined protection against the heat. Swathed in their burqas the houses sit, impassive. If sun-wearied inhabitants dare a cautious glance through the narrowed window slits, they glimpse a world remarkable only for its brilliant, glinting light and the harsh glitter of summer’s oppressive truth. ”No. There will be no change. Not now. Not yet…”
In coastal cities and towns, the stolid endurance of the country is matched by an exquisite ennui, a torpor so complete police chiefs wipe sweat from their brows and explain suddenly peaceful nights by saying, “It’s too hot for crime.” In a world of concrete and crowded neighborhoods, there is no rising evening breeze, no summer kitchen, no pulsing, star-studded night. There is only the waiting: waiting for August to be done, waiting for September to end and then waiting again, for the coming of October with its prairie-fresh wind and brilliant skies.
Should October come and go, as it occasionally does, with none of the expected rains, no refreshment and no release of heat, it brings a particular kind of despair – the anguished waiting for release of summer’s prisoners. Yet even as they wait the Aeolian whisper breathes its promise. “There will come a day when the door to autumn will open. There will come a rush of sudden leaves like the rattling of keys, footsteps in the corridors of time, a voice as crisp as wind-seared corn and fresh as tumbled-up cirrus.”
“It will be over,” whispers the wind. ”Your time will have been served. The season of your impatience and longing will end.”
When that day comes, it arrives first as a scent, a subtle and barely-perceptible drift of air redolent of snow still hidden in the clouds, or of wind frothing the open ocean. A scent that isn’t a scent, it clears the palate to taste every coming hint of autumn carried on the wind - faint whiffs of woodsmoke from the north, the bouquet of cane and rice clearing to the east, an acrid aftertaste of burning prairie.
Crossing streets or lounging about on street corners, wandering parking lots or working in yards, people stop, and begin to look around. Briefly at one with their earliest ancestors, they sniff the air with the focus and intensity of startled animals, beginning to smile as they sense a lifting of summer’s oppressive weight.
Tentative at first and then emboldened, quickening breezes slide along walls and round crumbling corners, stirring the dusty detritus as they go. Blown free of moisture’s milky veils, the sky reclaims cerulean and topaz, deepening and darkening as the cirrus stream away, mares’ tails racing on the wind.
While mares’ tails fly, windows fly open. A complaining squeak of wood here, a rasp and twang of aluminum there and curtains are set free to imitate clouds. Opened windows lead to opening doors, and as the neighbors emerge, communities come alive. Reopened windows bring a reclaiming of life - the quarreling couple, the chattering children, the undisciplined dog, the too-loud drunk, the skateboarding teenagers - all begin to crowd into one another’s lives through the grace of these simple windows.
I sit these days and nights with my own windows opened, summer eased but not entirely finished, dependent on rain and cold from the North to bring the beginning of true autumn and our only hope for autumn color. Some favorite summer sounds still linger - the metallic clack of palm leaves, an irritated squawk from the heron startled from his perch, the faux-rain rippling of tens of thousands of glass minnows.
Against the familiar background, sounds of a new season begin to resonate. The coots have returned, dignified and elegant in their black bodies and white bills but completely undignified in their actions, given to a cacophony of silly calls and riots of mad, splashy paddling as they try to break free of the water.
As for the newly-arrived contingent of mallards, they seem a little cranky. Bored or argumentative, their insistent quacking can continue for hours. A recent, especially boisterous evening resulted in a sudden voice ringing out into the night: ”Damn it! SHUT UP!” Apparently I have one neighbor with a fondness for open windows but a low tolerance for ducks.
Amused by the exchange, listening to the night-noises with a new attentiveness, I heard something else. The soft thrum of air conditioners, ubiquitous in summer, nearly has ceased. Yet somewhere close at hand, the sound nearly concealed by the full-throated ducks, one machine continued its low, insistent whine. It seemed astonishing. On one of the most beautiful of evenings, with the door to autumn swinging open, one person had chosen imprisonment. One person freely chose to keep the windows shut, to close off the night, to ignore the touch of the breeze, the chatter of the creatures and the tender, resonant silence that emanates from the very heart of reality.
As with windows, I think, so with life. There are times when conditions require a shuttering off from life’s storms, a retreat from extremes of heated anger or cold, emotional distance that leave us anguished or exhausted. Clearly there are times to shade our eyes and drape our spirits with layers of protection until the turning of life’s season brings relief.
But just as we throw open our windows to catch the scent and sounds of a new and refreshing season, there is a time to open ourselves to life, to leave the prisons of our own making and our own choice. The way of passivity, lassitude and stolid endurance is one way of life, but it is not the only way. Certainly it is not the best way, as the poet Rumi so eloquently expressed.
Your way begins
on the other side
become the sky
take an axe to the prison wall
escape
walk out like someone
suddenly born into color
do it now
Those of us in the Midwest are at the opposite stage of this spectrum. Darkness comes so early now, even before dinner gets to the table, and with it comes chill winds that presage the cold and isolation of winter.
But this past week has been a miraculous gift – unnaturally warm sunshine and fierce blue skies every day, as if autumn cannot bear to let us go into that long cold night of winter. I’ve been trying to soak up every available minute.
Becca,
Perhaps our extended summer has influenced your extended autumn. “Indian summer”, as we called it when I was growing up in Iowa, was one of the best times of the year, a little grace note in the seasonal symphony.
Our days have shortened, too, but when sunshine and warmth continue into the dark, it’s almost as though time stops. My midwestern roots may be showing again, but when darkness comes without cold, I can’t believe it’s really – what? – two weeks before Thanksgiving? Oh, dear!
Linda
Pure poetry!
While enjoying the ‘poetry’ of the seasons, I looked forward with anticipation to the universal message usually found at the end of your work. I like how you went from the descriptive to the personalized message. I also like the use of the senses allowing the reader to hear, feel, smell, see, the images that you create.
Love this piece. Beautiful!
Maria,
Maria,
Anyone who tries to write soon gains a new appreciation for those who manage to do it well. I suspect the same is true for painters – each of your canvases, with its problems and solutions, surely leaves you well aware of what your own favorites were able to accomplish. The beauty of it is that if we are careful – or lucky! – each brushstroke, each word, can bring us closer to communicating our vision.
I’m thrilled that you felt your senses engaged. Capturing something as vibrant and sensual as a season in words or paint isn’t easy, but it’s certainly worth the effort. Even the musicians give it a try now and then – a little Vivaldi, perhaps?
Thanks, as always, for your kind words. I’m so glad you enjoyed the read.
Linda
The susurration (love that word!) of air conditioners is sweet compared to the whining drone of leaf-blowers. ARGH! So glad you are at last able to throw open the windows and hear, see, smell your full-of-wonders world again.
Perfect, poetic, and such a balm. Thank you.
ds,
Oh, the dreaded leaf-blowers. At the Yacht Club where I do the bulk of my work, I refer to the fellows who wield them as The Yard Crew from Hell. They always show up directly upwind of fresh varnish and crank those babies up – apparently convinced I truly would like grass clippings frosting my work. (I’m really quite cute when I throw a tantrum.)
As you know, the view from the third storey window can be remarkable, and there are surprises galore. Most of my memorable views involve clouds, sun, moon and “sky-blue-pink”, but there’s a new addition to the collection you might enjoy. Well, make that two.
A happy weekend to you!
Linda
What a brilliant piece of writing. I loved the subtle use of alliteration, which allowed me to ‘indulge’ in the words as they rolled around inside my head.
October in Zambia is known as the “suicide month”. Temperatures rise, humidity becomes unbearable and the rainy season plays cruel games with your psyche, as clouds build in the afternoon sky, only to dissipate as the sun sets taking the promised relief with them.
As Becca said, here we have the opposite. The cold chills of winter bring isolation – you go to work before the sun awakes, arrive home after dark. Neighbours you stop to chat with on summer evenings are never seen for weeks, their presence only noted by the glowing light behind the firmly closed windows.
Sandi,
Your comment brought to mind one of the best blog threads ever – do you remember The Great Alliter-Off? It’s been over a year ago, now. I believe GardenGrrl started the fun. I had written something about Sisyphus, and quite accidentally alliterated. One thing led to another, several people got involved, and quite a story was written. It’s a fact – words can be fun!
The end of the dry season in Liberia is quite the same – continual teasing, continual disappointment. The predictability of weather there wasn’t especially distressing, but I found the monotony unpleasant, and loved the transition to the rainy season as much for the changes as for the rain.
One of my favorite Biblical and poetic images is that of light, shining in the darkness. People may flock to the huge displays of holiday light, but I still prefer, for example, the sight of a single star atop a windmill, shining out over the fields.
Linda
Writing teachers always say, “Show, don’t tell.” You have a gift for doing even more than that. You transport. I’ve never been to Texas, but for the past fifteen minutes I was there, sweating out the last days of summer and searching for any sign of relief.
As Becca and Sandi said, many of us on the dark side of the Moon endure the other extreme. We wait out the biting cold of March as it whips into April. Exhausted by a long winter of snow, ice, and wind, we look to May for some reward, but often that’s the cruelest month of all. There must be warmth; the crocuses and the daffodils and the cherry trees are feeling something our senses can’t find. And then one day the neighbors are outside, standing and talking, instead of rushing from car to house. As you said so perfectly, we hide for eight months so we can live for four. Maybe I should start playing hockey.
It’s hard to be sure, but I think this is your best essay yet. I plan to read it several more times over the winter, just as a reminder that I should be careful what I wish for.
bronxboy,
I’ve never had a writing teacher, but I have a dear friend named Anton Chekov who once gave me a bit of advice: “Don’t tell me the moon is shining,” he said. “Show me the glint of light on broken glass.” I’ve since discovered this is quite a well-known quotation and the basis for innumerable blogs and books on writing – but never mind that. The little quotation is enough for me, tucked up into a corner of my desk, and you’ve done me the great honor of suggesting that with this piece, in some small way, I honored Chekov’s advice.
To be frank, I laughed in the midst of working on this when I discovered the phrase “brilliant, glinting light…” parked in the middle of it. Perhaps it was just my inner Chekov coming out.
I can’t say whether this is my “best”, but there is something different. There aren’t any links and there aren’t any quotations, other than the necessary Rumi. Links and quotations aren’t bad – in fact, they’re quite necessary in some instances – but this is a piece that’s qualitatively different, no matter its quality.
There’s a phrase sailors use when conditions keep them in port: “weathered in”. We get weathered in by heat and humidity, you have your snow, ice and wind – and all of us know the joy of a suddenly temperate day. Conditions differ, but the experience is the same. Amazing.
As for hockey – there’s a reason people here like to go boating in the midst of summer’s doldrums. You can create your own breeze
Linda
I love the simile (is it?) of shuttering off our lives. That is what I had to do in order to emotionally and mentally survive the media onslaught post-oil spill. No way could my hurricane-flood-damaged psyche handle images of oil spewing into the Gulf, although some were riveted to their TV and computer screens: oil-spill-soap-opera junkies.
As always, your thoughts, eloquently expressed, go well with my Saturday morning dark roast Community. There is something to be said for shuttering. I am not desensitized to tragedy, craving the larger, worse case scenario news to make life worth living. Just being on the bayou is enough for me, with the wetlands, birds, gators, Bayou Fabio, fishing, Capt. J., the food and the music.
Write away, my friend. Write away!
Wendy,
Indeed, you represent the other side of this particular reality, and your wisdom in dealing with the oil spill as you did is obvious. There were people heavily invested – both emotionally and financially – in those worst case scenarios. In their own way, they were as distressing as the actual events.
From the “Vogue” editors who chose to display an oiled fashion model on their cover, to the folks shorting BP stock, to the garden-variety apocalypse- mongers throwing advertising onto their weird videos of ROV footage – well, the phrase “profits of doom” came to mind. I nearly turned that one into an entry, but like you decided a little backing off might be good.
I’d never fully appreciated shutters until I moved to hurricane country. In the midwest, they’re purely decorative. But I’ve learned something about shutters that’s as important as the protection they offer. We’re the ones who decide when they should open, and when they should be closed. Figure that out, and life is good.
Linda
Delishious, as always, Linda.
Thought you’d might enjoy my friends’ photoblog, Nirgal Wallis
-b,
Terrific to have you stop by. I thought of you a couple of weeks ago, in the midst of considering whether to install Typekit and try a new font on the blog. I decided to leave well enough alone, knowing my ability to sabotage things that are working perfectly well, cyber-wise.
Nirgal’s work is stunning. I was especially taken by the use of titles in a variety of languages. Remarkably, the titles I couldn’t interpret – Persian? Urdu? Russian? – acted in their own way as shutters, preventing me from fully looking in as surely as other shutters keep us from looking out.
I don’t mean at all to imply that’s bad. The titles I couldn’t understand stopped me, forced me to look more carefully, made me more curious. Really, quite a remarkable experience.
Linda
Hello Linda,
I love this new story. And like all of your stories, your way with words is just beautiful. This story is magical and I read that many people feel just like you about this time of year.
I am afraid when I grew up back in the mid-south, I was one of those that did not welcome the fall because I knew winter was around the corner.
But we all know I am a tropical girl and cannot deal with any type of cold weather. Actually, even in the hot summer months our neighbors are all outside all the time in our backyards, patios, garages and front yards. Sure, when heat index gets to be 100 it is harder to be outside, but being 60 degrees is worse for most of us here.
And our “crime” is so bad in the past 20 years, even in good areas we cannot go to bed at night with our home open in SE Florida. Every home here has alarm systems so that you cannot open the house and have the alarm on at night. In the 1970′s we could but no longer.
But our local issues do not take away from the beauty of your story and your words.
I love your illustrations also!
Patti
Patti,
You’d not be happy here this morning, little Miss I-Have-to-Have-It-Above-Sixty!
We have a lovely 53 degrees, and there are vague mutterings about lows in the mid-40s later this week. It seems autumn will arrive after all.
It’s a sad truth that we’ve lost some of our freedom to open our homes to the natural world. The sole reason my mom wanted to move into an apartment on the second floor rather than the first was for security. She was willing to trade the difficulty of stairs for the added sense of safety.
But the stairs haven’t been a problem for her yet, and she can have her windows open – a true pleasure for one who doesn’t get out as much as she used to.
I do think my own sense of imprisonment at the end of summer has as much to do with a hunger for change as any desire for cold weather. Once we’ve had a few fronts and some rain, I’d be perfectly willing to be able to join you in tomato growing!
Linda
With December around the corner, and a week of November heat behind us (luckily Melbourne’s reputation for having “four seasons in a day” is true, and we get unexpected bursts of relief from whatever weather is plaguing us) this piece really did remind me of what is in store over the coming months. Something tells me that the 2010/2011 Summer holidays are going to be scorching!
biscuitfeatures,
I read a couple of southern hemisphere blogs regularly, and despite the fact that I “know better”, I’m always startled by the opposing seasons. Perhaps the template we impose on the physical world is ingrained in childhood. When I lived in Liberia, there was something unnatural about watching the sun set over the Atlantic. The Atlantic is east, after all, not west, and I had to make a conscious mental adjustment every time – even though it took only a second.
Thanks so much for stopping by, and for commenting. You’re welcome any time!
Linda
As I was reading this, I was ***WHOOSHED*** back in time to childhood summers with fans of all shapes, sizes and locations, open windows with limp curtains wishing for a breeze, Mama’s hot kitchen and screened doors banging.
On visits to the family farm, we’d sit on Granny’s front porch lazily propelling the rocking chairs or pushing porch swing with one foot, listening to the grownups’ desultory conversations, with the occasional baying of a hound in the distance. Supper was over, the kitchen cleaned up, the farm chores were done for the day. Bedtime was looming but the cooler evening temps would keep us lingering.
Central A/C is nice but it shuts us off from our neighbors and we no longer know who many of them are. Unlike ‘days of yore’, when every house had a front porch. When front porch sitting was a fine art and folks would call out, “Evenin’” to each other and wave at passing cars.
Bug,
No one who grew up with those screen doors ever forgets the sound – not just the “bang!” that comes when you’re already off the porch and ten feet away, but the long, raspy, metallic complaint as you stretch the coiled spring. You know – the sounds that come just before somebody yells, “Stop hanging on that door!”
And one of the remembered images that gave rise to this post is of lying in the back bedroom of my grandparents’ home, condemned to a nap. There’s no forgetting the chenille bedspread, the metal bedframe or the sheer, limp curtains you describe. They were so light they would stir with breezes I wasn’t able to feel. Sometimes I imagined they were alive.
You’re exactly right about porch-sitting being an art. It’s active, not passive, and it helps to hold a community together. Maybe that would be a winning political slogan: Fewer backyards, More Front Porches! I’d vote for that!
Linda
Linda,
Thank you so much for this beautiful Sunday morning gift. I simply love your writing, the images, sounds, scents your words suggest. How lucky you are to count Tchékov amongst your friends
He is one of mine too. I was lucky enough to visit his house and garden in Ialta, Crimée long ago. As I strolled around his garden I understood better how his imagination and thoughtful writing were partially inspired by its surroundings at all Seasons. Such as yours.
Autumn is almost gone here but not yet, today is mild and sunny and soon I will be out in the woods with my beagle, enjoying every minute and every step of our walk. I will remember your words and the images you created in my mind. Thank you.
PS. Beautiful photography too; the last one, is it a painting from Picasso´s “Blue Period” ? I had a postcard of it once and loved it.
Isa,
Your mention of Picasso gave me the clue I needed to find the source for the beautiful painting. I found her image originally in a YouTube video, a version of Marisol’s Hablame Del Mar Marinero. Because I didn’t know the source I linked to the video, but now it’s properly identified: “Woman at the Window at Figueres” by Salvador Dali. The woman is his sister, Ana Maria, and she’s looking out at the Bay of Cadaqués, where Dalí used to spend summers.
Just as I think of Picasso in a certain way, I always think of Dali’s work in terms of his surrealism. It never occurred to me he might have painted such a beautiful piece. Every new post brings me a good bit more knowledge – thank you for your question!
Thank you, too, for sharing your memories of Chekov’s home and garden. I already have Van Gogh’s garden at Arles on my wish-list of places to see. It’s highly unlikely I’ll ever visit there, but if I do, I’ll plan to make a stop at Chekov’s, too!
Thank you so much for visiting, and for your own, beautiful blog. The photographs of Istanbul are splendid, and I’ll be sharing them with a friend who lived there for a time.
Linda
“…to leave prisons of our own making and choice…” Favorite line – indeed Shore, I have recently realized how adept I can be at creating my own prison -though the discovery usually comes w/keys. Life is toooo sweet to be Lady Shallot.
Open the window and breathe deep, and while falling into Rumi (whom I never had opportunity to read or learn about) I discovered this golden nugget:
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
– Jelaluddin Rumi,
Thanks, Shore, for opening the door.
surfmom,
Sometimes we make our own prisons, and sometimes we move into whatever’s available. I’ll never forget a certain experience I had with a street person I caught in the process of a theft. I’m saving the details for a story down the road, but the point is this: when the police arrived, he was more than willing to head off to the slammer. As a policeman said to me after he’d gone, “He’ll get a clean bed, a shower, a hot meal and tv. What’s not to like?”
What’s not to like, of course, is that his solution is temporary. When he got out of jail and was back to “freedom”, it was no freedom at all, only a plunge back into the imprisoning grip of a destructive cycle.
And there, I suppose, is where I grow cautious about Rumi’s words. Yes, all experience can be valuable. Yes, there is reason to allow even the “crowd of sorrows” or “dark thoughts” to be treated honorably. But allowing a guest is far different than handing over title to the house. Eventually, I’m sending them on their way – after they’ve brought back the furniture, of course!
Linda
Don’t forget those chenille marks that marred our faces after those naps! LOL
That’s why one of my cousins always pulled back the bedspread. She wasn’t about to be seen in public with those terrible imperfections!
Linda
This reminds me of Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove. In the beginning of the book he describes the oppressive heat so convincingly that one reaches for a glass of iced water. You’ve managed to put me in the same state.
Wonderful how you toyed with our senses till we thirsted. I’m wondering how may others felt the same.
Our foliage is beautiful now. I wish you could see it and feel our cool nights and moderate days. This is perfection. I wish it on you.
Bella
Bella,
Your wish has been granted. A front is easing through, and we’re at 54 degrees. Once things clear out it’s going to be a perfect, moderate but coolish week. ‘Bout time. We don’t have much in the way of pretty foliage, but I did notice some of the Chinese tallow are beginning to turn. Their burgundy is pretty.
I’m just tickled beyond imagining I was able to give you even a “taste” of hot, humid and oppressive. When I finished the piece I thought maybe it would “work” (as they say) but you never know. Funny you mention McMurtry. There were points I felt like I was herding words, and some of them were pretty recalcitrant. But this post was satisfying in a different way, and I’m glad you enjoyed it.
Linda
Yes, I remember those chenille bed spreads with the little pom pom for decorations! And the “banging” of the screen doors… that was very much a part of my life growing up on a farm in NE Arkansas…
We also had the big “fan” that was in one window that faced out and we all just barely cracked open our window by our beds at night – the cool night time air would come rushing in and keep us so cool all night long…our version of “attic fans” that some people had. My family did not get a window unit A/C (that only really cooled the living room) or a Color TV until I was in 3rd grade… had to be early-mid 60′s.. we got them both the same summer!
Patti,
I remember those outward-facing window fans. Friends who lived in the Texas panhandle used big fans like that for evaporative cooling (“swamp coolers”) but of course they’re useless in high humidity.
My first night in Liberia was the night I was introduced to the practice of sprinkling bedsheets with water – theoretically another form of evaporative cooling. After I’d had a week of that I got out of Monrovia and headed up-country, where things were better. But I’d been sheet-sprinkling long enough to figure out its primary virtue was that it gave you something to do. I’m not sure it helped with cooling at all.
Linda
Linda,
We’re 1,759 miles apart, and we live in different worlds. We’ll only hear “It’s too cold for crime.” And at present, with trees bare and fields all brown and dry, we’re bracing ourselves, animals and humans alike, for a fierce winter. Nevertheless, your metaphor still works here. After a cold winter of shut windows, we look forward to spring to open up our world, to come out from hibernation, both animals and humans alike.
I’ve appreciated your densely poetic descriptions, bringing me to this other world you inhabit, and imagining the application of your apt metaphor. An open door or an open window, I think we can all feel the rejuvenating effect of fresh air no matter where we are in the world. Thanks for a beautiful post, both text and photos.
Arti,
I can’t help but think of that wonderful series of photos you gave us in The Greening of a Calgary Street – arched trees, un-shuttering themselves, opening themselves up to the freshness of spring. We have our Indian Summer, you have Eliot’s “Midwinter spring” – both seasons perfect turning points, transitions, times of movement from “this” to “that”.
The wonder of the turning of the seasons is that they occur without any regard for us – not for our wishes, not for our hopes, not even for our silly pretentious predictions. The coots have come, and the teal. Next will come the cranes, the pelicans and the geese. Winter will be what it is and then, one day, they’ll be gone. I find it all immensely reassuring.
Linda
Oh, how I cherish that part of summer-into-fall you describe, where the windows are still open and suddenly you hear a whole new collection of sounds. We notice it at the lake on Labor Day and after. When you mentioned the air conditioning, I couldn’t help but think of our neighbors whose air has been a source of contention for us much of the summer. The compressor is so darned loud that when it stops, we are stunned with the silence. (And it isn’t all that hot, either; open a window, for heaven sake, we’d like to say!)
Alas, our Michigan windows are closed now, storms on, watching the weather in Minnesota and Wisconsin move eastward with trepidation. Now the “weather sounds” of wind or rain are muffled.
Your text is so very evocative. And that one window looked like a 3-d image — it seemed to jump out of the screen. Oh, how I love your writing!
jeanie,
Do you mean the photo with the curtain blowing out of the window? If so, I’m pleased as can be. I worked with that one for some time, trying to get exactly that effect. I do enjoy working with the images I choose for each entry – and I’m learning. The one with the tiny, barred window began with a bit of another window frame, a lamp post and an air conditioner compressor (!) cluttering up the scene. (Don’t you wish you could get rid of your neighbor’s air conditioner so easily?) It seems that no matter whether we’re working with words or images, sometimes it’s what gets taken out that’s important.
At this point I’m so far removed from the rituals of snow country I had to do a double-think when you said “our Michigan windows are closed now, storms on…” I tried to read it at first as “storms are coming”, a reference to a weather phenomenon. Then, I remembered: storm windows. We have hurricane shutters, but you have storm windows – and the effect is exactly the same. Not only that, I remember my folks having discussions about when to put them up that sounded remarkably like discussions about whether it’s time to board up for a hurricane. No one wanted to put those storm windows up too early, but no one was keen on putting them up while the snow was flying, either!
Enjoy your week – I hope the snow later this week is purely decorative!
Linda
Mmmmm…love the rhythm and shush of your language to go with the summer heat you describe – and I love the word “susurration” of the fans…it has to be a word rooted in old French (will look it up.) And the “faux-rain rippling…of the glass minnows.” Geez. Poetry can slice an image out of the air like no other form. (OK, this is prose, but poetic nonetheless).
You neighbor hollering at the ducks made me laugh. Funny how certain sounds can just “stick” out no matter how zen you get within yourself. Apparently that duck was hitting the wrong note on the neighbor’s nerve scale.
Well, I enjoyed this so. It gave me a vision of the south I have not yet ever experienced, with dragging beds or cots out onto a summer porch or better yet under those “star-blocking oaks.” So, it’s really true if you tell me that it is. I don’t always believe the movies and stories that mention doing those things.
Luscious stuff. And welcome to fall. You must find us with our dried leaves and bare trees to be a bit odd. And the wind that tore through here today was not kidding; it was edged with the bite of the coming cold weather.
Did I say your pictures were great with this piece? They are.
oh,
It absolutely is true – those sleeping porches and beds out under the stars. My great-aunt in Baton Rouge had a sleeping porch, as did one of her neighbors. My aunt’s house also was one of the Sears pre-fab homes popular at the time. It arrived in a box, and you built it, then added things like sleeping porches to it.
A friend who was raised in the Texas panhandle in the 1940s always slept under the stars in the summer. Many of the beds of the time were simple steel frames with mattresses – no box springs and all that – so they were easy enough to pick up and move. As he once said, “We would have been happy enough to move them back into the house if it rained, but unfortunately the dust bowl days were still lingering, and it was dust we worried about more than rain.”
And just a word about finding “just the right word”. When I was writing this, I realized I wanted to reference those noisy little fish that produce the rain-like sound. I didn’t have a clue of their real name, so I called a local fishing and sporting goods store that’s been around for decades. I talked to one of the guys, told him I needed to know the name of the fish. He asked a few questions about size, number and so on, and then I said, “When they’re jumping, it sounds like it’s raining.” “Glass minnows!” he said, laughing. “Aren’t they something?” I couldn’t believe my luck. I mean, their proper name could have been “speckled chub”.
And yes – I’ve been carrying “susurration” around with me for a while, like a coin in a pocket. I finally decided to spend it.
Today, your wind has become our wind, and it still has a bit of a bite. Thanks for sharing!
Linda
Stunning! As usual, you manage to sweep up your readers and transport them to your word world!
My favourite thing about coastal living is weather. So extreme all the time, and always changing. When I’m in a city or a place with constant weather I feel a sense of disconnection. Weather, and its vagaries, makes you feel alive.
Jeannine,
I share your love of living weather – filled with change and surprises. Twice in my life, in California and Liberia, I’ve experienced living where seasons were what they were, and for long stretches of time. Sometimes it even was pleasant, but while sunny and seventy’s delightful, it can begin to feel more like a stage set than life. Some people extol the virtues of such weather – chambers of commerce come to mind – but I find even the most beautiful weather can become tedious.
You’re awfully kind, about the words. Actually, it crossed my mind this morning that a certain little soap-and-cheese eating fellow might deserve his own little story.
Linda
Once again – superb. Your ability to translate us from our world to yours is amazing. Or perhaps it isn’t your world, exactly, but a lightly veiled view of our own lives – one that encourages us to push the sheers open and take a closer look.
I love the image of burqa’d houses, hidden away from the prying eye of the sun. I’m sure those rooms were not as cool as my memory makes them, but the relief from the sun sure made them feel that way. And shade of any sort seemed cooler then as well – perhaps because without a/c it was the only source of relief until the sun went down.
Fall is here in the Tidewater, too – thanks for reminding me to be in the moment and enjoy its all too brief appearance.
Lee,
And isn’t it amazing how those delicate sheers can separate us from the world as surely as the heaviest shutters? Now that I think of it, they can be just as difficult to move aside.
I’m so glad you like the burqa’d houses. I like them, too, though I was quite surprised when the image popped up. They’re an example of what I think of as my stray words. They show up at the back door, whine a little, accept some food and an ear scratch and then, when my back is turned, they sidle into the house and take up residence. Generally, if they make it in and seem to serve some purpose – even if their purpose just is being cute – they get to stay.
I do think there’s cool shade and warm shade. It’s the difference between fields, gravel roads, two-lane highways, trees and porches on the one hand and concrete, freeways, smooshed-together buildings and huge, asphalted parking lots on the other. When the sun drops here at the height of the summer, it takes until just before dawn for things to cool down. But in the country – or in a less urbanized time – a step under a shade tree makes all the difference. And in a pinch, there’s always the beloved parasol – a beautiful little handheld defense “against the sun”.
Thanks for taking time from your obligations to not only stop by, but leave such a gracious comment.
Linda
So far, no snowflakes yet — but they threaten!
Yes, that’s exactly the one I mean — brilliant work to make it so very three dimensional! Bravo! (I have trouble even touching up Gypsy’s “white eyes” in flash pix. The program has a red eye feature, but it needs a pet-eye version!)
jeanie,
I managed to get Dixie’s eyes “right” for one of my blogs about her by copying her left eye and pasting it over her right. Is that acceptable practice? Not very sophisticated for sure – but it worked well enough for my purposes! I do have the Adobe Elements 6 program, and two books that promise to teach me how to be a photoshop whiz. Someday I’ll get around to that
Linda
Wonderful writing, Linda.
It’s springtime here, and a beautiful refreshing breeze is passing through the open windows, from one side of the house to the other. Our front windows (where we’re staying at the moment) look out onto the foothills of the Andes, too.
That Rumi sounds like Zen to me…
Andrew,
No matter whether the passage is from summer to winter or winter to spring, everyone seems to notice and respond. The beauty of it is that no matter whether the experience takes place in a stunning setting, such as yours, or the coastal prairie of Texas (lovely in its own way, but hardly stunning), it seems to open us anew to the beauty of change.
I was introduced to Rumi a year or so ago, by another blogger. Some of his work is less appealing to me, but some is impossible to forget, like this poem. I used it in another piece about the uprising in Iran, and it fit there as well.
Linda
Such a rush of inspiration here, unstoppable and earthy…very beautiful!
In Los Angeles, we’re finally getting some crisp Thanksgiving weather, with rain coming in this weekend – but that’s as it should be.
At night, when I walk home, I always look at the moon, and these past days I’ve watched her grow from crescent to full, shimmering in the cold sky.
Around this time we should start seeing the migrating creatures: wonderful flying ‘V’s of geese, and tired butterflies on their flight from Texas to Northern California.
So many times people forget to look into the sky!
aubrey,
The coots have arrived here, and a few grebes, but I still haven’t heard the geese. For me, they’re the true harbingers of autumn, and thrilling when they fly. Our next front is arriving around Thanksgiving day – it’s the time, and perhaps this will be the weather that brings them. I wonder sometimes if they watch the moon as we do, grateful for the light it sheds on their path.
Every time I hear the words “Los Angeles” and “rain” in the same sentence, I realize anew how deeply influenced I was by that silly song – telling us it never rains in Southern California. Obviously it does, and is, but you have a nearly perfect forecast for the holiday. Open the windows wide, and enjoy it – and thank you for stopping by with your lovely comment.
Linda
Linda:
A magnificent piece. How can I say what I liked best, when I liked it all. The photographs are superb.
I too photograph walls, windows and doors–as do many photographers. They tell us so much about who and what we are and have been–even what we are becoming.
In a very real way windows, walls and doors, are like skin–the interface alternately letting in, releasing, protecting, entrapping, inviting,and shutting out.
Thanks again for providing such insight and pleasure.
Mike,
I’m so glad you found and enjoyed this piece – it’s one of my favorites. Your thoughts about windows and doors as interface – like semi-permeable membranes – seem so obvious, but I’ve never thought of them in that way, nor heard anyone else make the point so succinctly.
I’ve always been fascinated by doorways and windows, and prefer them to monuments for photographs when I’m traveling. I’m sure part of that is that I’m simply not a good enough photographer, nor well-enough equipped, to capture “big” subjects. But I have a taste for the small – I’ve always preferred Christopher Wren’s parish churches in London to St. Paul’s – and windows and doors lend themselves to that kind of preference.
Thank you for being so generous with your comments. It’s always a delight to have the perspective of a real photographer.
Linda