O Lord, not a normal Christmas! We exchanged gifts with family, not around our Christmas tree, but met in a park we’d never seen before. Sharing fervent, but distanced love and hot chocolate to combat chilly Michigan weather helped, but — crazy!
What’s that? OMG, of course, You’re right. The first Christmas was pretty crazy, too.
Nobody feels neutral about autumn’s advent. Mention fall, and you trigger one of two reactions:
“No-o-o-o-o (weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth)!”
Or, “Ye-e-s-s-s (double fist pump)!”
The first response typifies skinny beach bums and bunnies who evolved without sweat glands. They play tennis on boiling blacktop and Frisbee on 500-degree sand. My scientific theory: summer people originally lived on the sun, but inexplicably migrated to the Midwest a million years ago. They’ve complained about fall ever since.
Perhaps you’ve deduced that I support the second view? Below, I’ve listed my Top 10 reasons for loving the harvest season:
Steve – At a Labor Day picnic 67 years ago, my husband’s 20-year-old mother wondered if the holiday would prove prophetic — she thought she was going into labor. However, the excitement was traced to a mole digging holes under her blanket. Hubby, who still takes his good old sweet time, appeared two weeks later. I’m glad he did.
Layers – No more bathing suits! Hurrah!
Cozy reading – Sure, beach books introduce us to new imaginary friends and take us to faraway places. But during fall, I can roll up in a throw like a giant burrito and read with equal enjoyment — with no sand in my pants.
Apple everything – Orchard apples taste as if they grew in fruit heaven. They bless us with bubbling apple pie, chunky homemade applesauce and hot, cinnamon-y cider. Mmm.
Comfort food – During summer, Congress should declare cooking illegal. But fall brings urges to fill the house with delicious fragrances: chili and cornbread on cold Saturday nights. Chicken and noodles for Sunday dinner. Golden loaves of bread that smell like love as they bake. Even hot coffee tastes better during fall. (I never could embrace iced coffee. Some things are just wrong.)
Squirrels – I like to watch them work. I like to watch anybody work but me.
Sports – I like to watch football and playoff baseball. I like to watch anybody exercise but me.
Weather – A fall day’s air smells fresh as if God just invented it. Often, autumn brings the only true-blue blue skies we see in Indiana. Even the most addicted summer junkie can’t deny that fall offers great snuggle weather.
Nature – Trees, clad in their best fall-rainbow finery, leave me breathless. Other scene-stealers: morning glories swathe fences with royal blue and ruby blossoms. Chrysanthemums bloom in jewel colors. Cornstalks rustle with gentle gossip about weather changes. Orange pumpkins like harvest moons nestle among brown vines. Ugly brown milkweed pods erupt with white, airy adventures.
Besides all this, we don’t have to weed or mow the grass this weekend.
What’s not to love?
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What is one of your Top 10 reasons for loving the harvest season?
O Lord, I’m tempted to gripe about dreary winter. Still, in January, I don’t do yardwork. I skip washing the car, because everybody’s car is grimy. And while poor souls in Hawaii must maintain abs of steel, my flab I conceal with warm, fuzzy layers. OMG, thank You for Indiana weather!
Few Midwesterners regard March as the dream month.
Though Halloween’s goblins haunt October, March
often qualifies as the year’s worst nightmare.
First, the time change disrupts biological clocks. “Spring forward?” Time saved?
That Sunday ranks as the crankiest of the church calendar. If I were a pastor, I’d refuse to preach until everyone had consumed two cups of coffee, plus three doughnuts apiece to sweeten tempers.
By March, we who have braved winters have had it
with gloating snowbird social media — especially if Mother Nature goes off her
meds, delivering a final winter blow.
Before attempting to consider March a “dream
month,” let’s visualize it as a combination of pluses and minuses — a wintry
mix, as weather gurus term it.
First, March weather in the Midwest presents a
huge opportunity to complain. We love to
Also, most snowbirds return by March’s end, when
Indiana typically suffers its wickedest weather. Watching beach babies shiver
in sandals makes it all worthwhile.
“This is nothing,” we stalwart Hoosiers brag.
“Wait till you hear The Weather Channel’s predictions for April!”
Another March mixed blessing: my birthday — far
more welcome during my childhood.
Now, though, my birthday presents a legal
opportunity to abandon my wretched diet and silence my exercise video’s cheery
A new mixed blessing arrived with this year’s
birthday: Social Security. I look forward to its benefits — but, Uncle Sam, haven’t
you made a big mistake? I’m still in
Given my “young” mindset, I hardly plan to retire,
as I’ve grown inordinately fond of shooting off my mouth via print. Good
behavior doesn’t sound nearly as fun.
Plus, around my birthday, I dream of next year’s
writing adventure. What stories will tease me? What new imaginary friends will visit
while I write their novels? March brings the best writing weather of the year,
when I rarely venture from my cozy writing cave.
March also presents a lo-o-ong transition time in
which we can contemplate spring cleaning for a whole month without actually
doing it. Ditto for yard work.
Winter days remain for camouflaging flab with
baggy sweaters. Yet, during thaws, we can raid spare room closets for (baggy)
During March Madness, basketball fans dream of their teams winning it all. Yet, spring training baseball scores awaken cravings for the sound of bat on ball, hot dog fragrances, and “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” wafting on spring breezes.
Daffodils, the ultimate dreamers, urge us to leave
winter behind, as does the calendar that naively celebrates spring on March 20.
So what if they’re out of touch with reality? March
is indeed the dream month, and I’m ready to celebrate. Who’s with me?
Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you celebrate/survive March?
Oh, my God, thank You for this final bouquet from our garden, rescued before temperatures plunged 40 degrees. And OMG, thank You for last fall’s Hobby Lobby clearance sales, providing this bouquet to greet the new season.
OMG, I’m done with torrential downpours and drizzly days! But You helped Mrs. Noah survive 40 days and nights of rain — plus cleaning up after a gazillion animals! Like her, I should believe Your rainbow promises. Though later, when their anniversary rolled around, I bet she and Noah didn’t take a cruise.
My daughter once wished for a different birthday month. I referred her to God for further discussion.
I do see her point, however. August boasts no holidays — not even a fake holiday like St. Patrick’s Day. Nobody throws big parties on the eve of August 1, as they do in January.
The hotter the weather, the more we chill. Dressing up is wearing matched right and left flip-flops. Days pass before we turn the calendar page.
When we do, though, a tiny tadpole of awareness wiggles into our days.
It’s August. Something’s different.
Outdoor projects delayed till warm weather now have been postponed till fall. Yards need extreme makeovers, but we’re so sick of yard work, we pay 4-Hers to release goat herds on our premises.
August presents an end-of-summer reality check. I purchased a “miracle” swimsuit in May. Now I realize the only miracle is that I paid big bucks for it.
August affects mothers in peculiar ways. They buy pencil boxes, though no one in human history has ever proved pencil boxes serve a useful purpose. Kids talk Mom into buying cool new backpacks, though 23 uncool backpacks languish at home.
Mothers also obsess about imminent changes in schedules: “Go to bed now so you’ll be ready when school starts.” My mother, who had five kids, did this. As of August 1, we went to bed at 4:00 p.m.
Even the sun listens to Mom and retires earlier in August. Yet during daytime, it unfurls golden rays as if leading an everlasting summer, ticker-tape parade. While eating home-grown, ice-cold watermelon in the backyard, we experience a different kind of reality check:
It’s been a great summer.
By August, every able-bodied person in the Midwest has ridden a Ferris wheel and consumed a warm, crisp elephant ear.
While still recovering from that gathering of DNA-related strangers known as a family reunion, we rendezvoused with cousins who long ago sneaked into drive-ins with us. We kissed sweet baby kin’s brand-new cheeks and gave grandmas and grandpas a smile.
In August, homeowners stop vying for the Yard of the Year. Instead, we concede the grand champion ribbon to God for His spectacular pastures of goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace and Sweet Williams.
He treats us to evening concerts by cicada choirs that sing their best in August. Fireflies, now veteran presenters, perform spectacular light shows at dusk with few technical glitches.
Whether we own farms or only farmers’ tans, the ripe cornucopia of gardens, tasseled cornfields and leafy rows of soybeans reassure us: After harvest, we will celebrate with plenty of food on our tables.
All during August — the not-so-special month.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What do you like best about August?
O my God, experiencing a nonexistent spring, I wonder — are these fuzzy yellow things snowflakes in disguise? But no, they’re dandelions! I usually don’t welcome them to my yard. But this year, OMG, thank You for each and every one!