THE “BER” MONTHS ARE ALMOST HERE

Every morning between 6:30 and 7, my iPhone DINGS and I smile. It’s a message from my friend Sandy, some days depicting a fuzzy kitten nestled in a bouquet of roses, another day illustrating two grey-haired ladies sitting in rockers sipping coffee. It’s Sandy’s “good morning” wave to me here in the Wells woods.

Today’s DING featured a different wake-up call.  It showed a slender woman toting a fat orange pumpkin, walking out her front door to a yard strewn with fallen leaves. The headline read: “The ‘ber’ months are only a week away.”

Already? 

Yes.

Consider last Sunday. I was sitting in a forward pew at Kennebunk Beach’s intimate and dear Trinity Chapel and noticed the altar flowers were yellow coreopsis and ecru hydrangeas. When June was “busting out all over,” plush pink peonies and Windex blue delphiniums filled the vases one week, flashy red tulips another. But the zealous greens of late Spring have morphed to somber colors of late August.

My backyard container garden, planted with joyful excitement and hopeful exuberance in May has, frankly, become a chore. The tomatoes, cucumber and zucchini seedlings flexed their spindly stems and matured into dinner-worthy side dishes. But they’re tired. Every morning when I come downstairs, I peek through the window to make sure everything is healthy, growing, and still there (damn deer). Instead of velvety verdant cucumber leaves and robust red tomatoes, I see withered leaves. It’s like they’re saying, “Hey Val, we gave you our best, but we’re done. Finito.” 

Signs of the coming “ber” months are rampant. Granddaughter Maddie returned to the University of Hartford to start her academic year and head back to the basketball court. Grandson Henry proudly added three trophies to his shelf by winning season-ending tennis tournaments at the Quogue Field Club in Long Island. Daughter Alex announced she’s “sick of zucchini and definitely not planting it next year,” confirmation that her thriving zukes multiplied beyond desire. Our summer canasta group of eight women is beginning to prepare for the transition to four as the snowbird members ink “return to Florida” dates in their calendars.

The other night, a few of us gathered at Mother’s Beach for a Sunset Picnic. Two facts stood out: there were numerous parking spots available and everyone wore long pants and sweaters. That doesn’t happen in July. The encroaching tide reminded me that all things come … and then go.

I’m not sad the “ber” months are almost here. September and October are glorious months in southern Maine, spotlighted with harvest festivals, and doorways framed by cornstalks and pumpkins, and kitchen aromas of apple cider muffins fresh out of the oven, and bringing the crock pot out of hibernation. I activate my knitting needles and purchase yarn for a bunch of projects. 

Frosty November features football games and family gatherings for Thanksgiving, December snow suggests Santa’s laden sleigh WILL get through, followed by the elation of another new year, with resolutions, restarts, beginnings. 

But I just can’t get Alice Walker’s spot-on words out of mind:  “Time moves slowly but passes quickly.” Sure does.