Still Summer

As I type this, I’m sitting at the table on the deck in back of our house. My phone says it’s 88 degrees, 67% humidity – what local weather forecasters call swampy. In the thick air, cicadas buzz over and over, a small plane circles over the fairgrounds a mile and a half away, and vehicle traffic on Snelling Avenue hums. The sky has been dark all day, but without rain.

Usually, the appearance of September 1 on the calendar puts me into an autumn mood. Not this year. This summer has been swift in its journey, so hopeful in mood over the past several weeks that I don’t want it to be over just yet. Even with school beginning here in a couple of days, it doesn’t feel like the end of summer. The fall equinox is still a few weeks away, so I feel justified in declaring that summer isn’t done yet.

The fullness of life here in the later days of summer is something I want to embrace with both arms.

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Mick and I spent as much time as we could watching the Democratic National Convention together. We felt the electricity generated by the excited crowds and fired-up speakers, felt the certainty that we have a shot at making our country better than it’s been since 2016. It was just in July that I felt like these were the last days for the U.S., as we slid towards an impossible choice for the U.S. presidential election in November. Then Kamala Harris replaced Joe Biden. Tim Walz as running mate gave us all a dad/coach pep talk. The momentum of a joyous burst of possibility happened. 

It was as if the sun broke through what had been a long line of storms.

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Here in Minnesota, the last days of summer always mean the Minnesota State Fair is in session. Twelve days of thousands of people streaming into the fairgrounds – people who wait in line for beer, fries, ice cream, deep-fried cheese curds, pronto pups, and mini-donuts regardless of their political affiliation, religion, gender identity, race, or other group-specific connections. There is unity in securing fair food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner while strolling around the Midway or through the animal barns or standing in front of one of the free music stages. Our state fair is the largest in the country for average daily attendance, and I almost never miss it. This year, people are out full-force, having a great time in spite of long, long lines and the divisive politics just beyond the fairground gates. Even the political booths inside the fairgrounds show the impact of recent shifts in the country’s mood. And, anyway, who can stay angry or spiteful with a mouthful of deep-fried food they just bit off a stick? 

The fair’s opening day was the same day Kamala Harris gave her acceptance speech at the DNC. The euphoric mood of the week spilled over everywhere.

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The day after I linger in swampy air on the deck, storm clouds gather. By 7 p.m., the sky is darker than it should be. Mick and I sit down to eat a salad of greens, shredded carrots, sliced cucumbers, hard boiled eggs, and grated Parmesan, dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Neither of us can tolerate heavy food on these sauna-like days. It’s more humid than yesterday, the temperature higher, and an unsettled feeling builds. As it gets darker outside, I can’t resist jumping up to go out on the front step and look at the sky. Clouds swirl and scuttle overhead, while lightning flickers nonstop. I go back inside, sweat beginning to form along my hairline. 

I’ve been sweating all day. It was moving day for our neighbors across the street. A “Two Men and a Truck” moving truck pulled into their driveway around 8 a.m. That they were moving on one of the hottest days of the summer was unfortunate, but the movers had the household loaded up before noon. Two other neighbors and I went over with our vacuum cleaners when the movers finished, did a last clean-up for our neighbors so they could leave a pristine home for the next family. All of us sweat like crazy. Beads of sweat formed within minutes on our necks and foreheads, our upper lips and in the smalls of our backs. Now, as we all await rain, I am grateful for air conditioning. My little visit to the front step reminded me that 90+ degrees with high humidity makes it a little harder to breathe. 

The rain, when it comes, is a deluge. I think of the people at the fair, know from experience that it’s hard to find a place indoors where there aren’t already hundreds of others taking shelter. I look outside our living room window at the way the backyard birch trees bend in the wind gusts, how the tall Joe Pye weed bows to the storm. 

It storms for the better part of an hour. We are lucky to find all our trees still standing when the storm subsides, lucky to still have power at our house. All over the metro, people can no longer turn on their lights or their air conditioners or electric fans. A sweltering evening is not a time to have the power fail. But in a display of unexpected beauty, the funky orange clouds show a rainbow at the same moment a lightning bolt zaps the sky in two. Those who manage to capture the image post it all over social media in a shared sense of awe.

A second severe storm rolls through while we sleep. The power for all the houses across the street from us goes out and stays out. I get a message from my friend down the street soon after I’m awake asking if she can dry her hair at our house if her power isn’t on by early afternoon. 

Our rain gauge shows 2.5 inches of water for the past 24 hours. Everything in the garden bows down now. But despite the torrential rains, lightning, straight-line winds, and power outages, the morning opens up with birdsong. With cooler air. With light.

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Mick and I meander around the state fair two days after the storms. The weather is perfect, a few clouds, no rain, less humid. Power is still out in some areas, but the fair is lit up, rides going, music playing all around. We stop at the Ball Park Cafe, where our friend Mark works during the fair, buy beer and say hello. We run into friends from Mick’s softball team, raise our beer glasses to each other, then go our separate ways. We listen to The Jorgensens, the band Mick’s saxophone teacher plays for at the Schells Stage. That’s only a prelude. We have plans to see Marky Ramone and his band play Ramones songs later in the evening at the Leinie Lodge Bandshell. 

After sampling soba noodles and veggies, Greek feta cheese balls, and deep-fried cheese curds, we settle into some seats for Marky Ramone. It’s dusk now, a great time for some old-school punk rock. When the band comes on stage, everyone stands up and stays on their feet for the entire hour-and-fifteen-minute set. They play everything rapid fire, no talking between songs, just go-go-go. The audience knows these songs, sings I wanna be sedated and I don’t want to be buried in the pet sematary and more at the top of their lungs. When the band takes a short break at the one-hour mark, the whole audience yells hey ho, let’s go! until the band reappears. Mick and I have a blast. We stick around afterwards to see the fireworks following the grandstand show, which was some country act that we don’t listen to. Lots of people stop in the streets to look up, watch the flowering lights in the sky.

As we leave the fairgrounds a little before 10:30 p.m., we are greeted with a couple of guys drumming on upside-down five-gallon buckets just outside the gate. There are drummers there every year. I love the sound they make as we cross the street with a whole swarm of people to get to our bus to go home.

This is exactly how late summer should feel: joyous, noisy, fun. An invitation to dive in, make the most of everything before dropping into bed, fully exhausted, sated, and happy.

This is the feeling I’ll hang onto a little longer, the one I hope carries us right through the election in November.