Summer Mood #3

Monday afternoon 

Wildfire smoke much less than it was. Cool enough to open the windows. White butterflies flit in and out of the catmint. Giant bumblebees make wild bergamot flowers sway beneath their eagerness. A black butterfly with blue, white, and orange markings hovers over blue vervain, spreads its wings open like an iridescent picture book. My dog finds dirt scattered on the deck beneath two freshly planted containers; the squirrels flung dirt all around. I bring out cinnamon, red pepper flakes, scatter both on the new plants after patting the dirt back in place. 

Quiet fills the neighborhood. Even houses that hold families with kids are quiet, the kids gone for the day, for the summer. The next-door-neighbor’s daughter-in-law arrives to mow the lawn, and it’s quiet no more. Back and forth across the grass she mows, almost never in a straight line, but somehow she gets it done.

When a small airplane rumbles overhead, I think of my childhood afternoons, how there was the sound of planes in a summer sky then, too. How the backyard was a place to play with my Barbie dolls, pick clovers, look for salamanders and daddy-long-legs in the window wells. I still have those Barbie dolls, dressed in their old swimsuits on stands in my office. Right now, I’m not sure why I’ve kept them. Maybe it’s that connection to when I made up stories every day and they felt real. When things felt safe because I didn’t know any better.

Tuesday afternoon 

For the first time in ages, I took a 20-minute nap. Three nights in a row of being awakened by a dog with tummy troubles. Muggy afternoon, soft summer clouds – perfect for resting. Soft summer wind. Birds chirping and twerping here and there. Sweep away the cobwebs on the front porch. Apologize to the dislodged spiders. Find the glass icicle my now-passed friend Zola gave me on a shelf in the garage. Hang it on the quadruple shepherd’s hook under the crabapple. Blue swirled through the clear glass. It cannot melt. Oh how it catches the afternoon light. 

Two neighborhood women walk dogs on the street post our house. Clouds billow. Shadows fall. Humidity builds. A storm brews while I heat water for tea. 

Humid Wednesday midday  

Invited to a St. Paul Saints baseball game. Excellent seats. Gray skies but no rain. Private planes overhead aiming for the St. Paul airport. Speculation that some of those planes hold musicians arriving early for the Farm Aid concert that’s this weekend. The Saints’ ball pig emerges on a leash wearing an orange tutu in one inning, a little saddle with Kermit the Frog seated in it in another inning. We leave at the end of the seventh inning as the Saints are behind the Iowa Cubs 7-1. Fun anyway – beer, brats, our friend Mark. Lots of little kids in matching t-shirts sitting in groups all over the stadium. I could spend a lot of summer afternoons like this.

 Saturday morning 

Massively humid. Dark clouds, thick air, water puddled on the deck. Trees so still you think you’re in a photograph. Joe Pye weed and wild bergamot bent over from heavy rain. Low rumbles in the western sky. Bluegrass on the local jazz station. Lucky we took a mile-long walk with the dog before breakfast. Now he stands beside me, waits for me to pet his soft cream-colored hair. No one moves outside. When I look through the patio door, its screen holds a million drops of water.

Sunday morning 

So humid it looks foggy outside when I get up with the dog. Soaked grass. Dog’s paws covered in dew. Little stray hairs curl up on my head. By mid-morning, the fogginess diminishes but the air still feels like we’re breathing underwater. I’m enchanted by water droplets sprinkled across leaves, slumbering bumblebees snuggled into flower heads. The older I get, the more joy I feel over small moments: seeing my partner Mick dig in the garden or granddaughter Maeve jump on a backyard trampoline or dog Finn leap after a ball. And the bigger my grief gets over so many people who cannot find that joy, cannot stop themselves from wrecking the world.

Another Monday 

Cool enough to shut off air conditioning for the first time in two weeks. I could not live where it’s hot and humid all the time. Or could I? Would I just move at a slower pace, get used to feeling moist everywhere all the time? Learn to live in linen clothes that swish when I walk, drink iced tea instead of hot coffee, eat more salad? Lay down in the afternoon when the temperature is highest, read book after book after book? Okay, maybe.

Another Tuesday 

A near-perfect August morning. Soft breeze. Birds conversing. Purple petunias in a pot on our deck. Sun streaming through the open front door. Dog curled nearby on the floor. A friend’s poetry manuscript to read. Fresh coffee in my mug. This is how to set aside the day’s news for a few hours. 

Smell of those petunias strong as I work at the table on the deck. Our copper whirligig garden art twirls in the wind, flings fragments of light across the garden. Wind chimes sing in soothing temple-like tones. I get up to stretch, walk the garden, pull lambsquarters and nightshade from the dirt, toss them into the compost. Bumblebees continue to be everywhere among the flowers, buzz in all parts of our yard. 

Finish doing my copy editing. Finish a blurb for my friend. Realize I seldom feel accomplished anymore as I relax into a less-structured life. Remind myself that achieving a peaceful life is an accomplishment and a privilege. 

All photos by kcmickelson 2025