The late summer of life

The heat has broken.  The days still climb into the mid-twenties, but the nights have grown cooler.  Instead of lying in bed above the covers, longing for the faintest breeze, I can now lie under a sheet or light blanket with the evening air lapping through the window like ripples on a beach.  I can even roll over and curl an arm around Sue, without breaking into a sweat.  Sue complains that "winter's almost here", as she puts on her sweater to step outside.  As much as I love summer, I revel in the cool morning.  All of the humidity settles overnight into dew on the grass, and air tastes sharp like old cheese and cider -- even here, with King Edward Avenue running past our front porch.

The approaching end of summer comes with clear signs.  Students begin to sift back into our neighborhood.  They appear with their parents or friends, unloading trailers and minivans into rooming houses.  The more tardy of them walk along the streets with scraps of paper, scanning the addresses and stopping to note vacancy signs.  Out in the countryside, the starlings and blackbirds have formed their flocks.  They whirl in and out of golden cornfields.  In the wetlands along the highways, the uppermost leaves of the maples begin to deepen to orange and red.  In the evenings, mist emanates from the warm earth to linger in low fields, valleys and coves until morning.

Sue and I saw a lot of the countryside this weekend.  Much of it, unfortunately, was along Highway 401, as we drove to and from Toronto to attend a baby shower for our friend Abena.  However, on Saturday afternoon we attended a musical gathering at a farm near Ashton, meeting up with friends and making new friends.  The farm is owned by the parents of Jen, one of our friends from the Elizabeth Riley Band.  We started with a informal song circle on the back porch -- just a few of us telling stories and playing our favourites, while the others relaxed in the shade of the trees.  Jen played a few songs.  Lyle Dillabough, the "Ottawa Valley Troubadour" was there, taking the lead or laying back as appropriate.  A neighbor, old Jim, who came to the area from northern Alabama about forty years ago, told stories and sang a cappella gospel in a fading but true southern drawl.  A family cat wound itself between chairs and around ankles.  Hummingbirds darted past the eaves.  Thunder muttered distantly, but somehow steered clear of us.  I took the lead on several songs, playing Our Town (Iris Dement), Call Me the Breeze (JJ Cale) and To Live's to Fly (Townes Van Zandt).

As a few more people showed up, the porch metamorphosed from a song circle to a small open stage.  Electric guitars, amplifiers and speakers made their appearance, and familar 60s and 70s classics began to echo over the surrounding fields.  Patricia and Carmel, our neighbors from the Co-op, arrived to complete the Elizabeth Riley Band.  They took their turn on stage, playing old folk and roots favourites.  The food came out:  new sweet corn, chili and salads.  Surrounded by a small, comfortable group of friends -- about twenty of us altogether -- I ventured to play a short set on stage:  a very nervous and shaky version of The Weakness in Me (Joan Armatrading), a more confident rendition of Don't Think Twice (Bob Dylan), a fair approximation of Red Light (Jonny Lang), a first public performance of Last Song to the Night (Nick Stow) and a reprise of Our Town -- accompanied beautifully by Lyle and the members of the Elizabeth Riley Band.  Sue and I stayed until sunset, then drove home through the dusk, dropping off one of the other guests en route.

It seems that the late summer of life is much like the season.  I feel more comfortable in my skin and more inclined to sample the sweetness of things.  Ten years ago, even five years ago, I would never have played guitar before an audience -- friends or not.  In fact, I would likely have shied away from such a gathering altogether, too self-conscious and too cautious.  More and more, I've come to identify with the words of the song, Ten Mile Stilts, by the Wailin' Jennies:  "I've got a heart that opens clear in this cool September dark/ and it sits on treetop leaves/ and it bursts it's little sparks/ And sometimes it sings its songs/ and it lets it's secrets out/ except for one it sears inside/ that it cannot live without."

I don't have any searing secrets -- I've learned that I can't with those -- but I've come to feel that my heart sits out there in the treetops.  And I don't fear it; and I look to autumn with anticipation.

Goodbye sweet companion

Hercules died on Sunday.  Chris and Dawn called in the evening from their home and property in Oxford Mills, where we had dropped off Hercules last year.  He'd shown no signs of illness or injury on Saturday night, when Chris let him out with Goldie and Shadow for a final run.  But he didn't return with the other dogs.  Chris looked for him in the darkness, to no avail, and then returned to the search in the morning.  He found Hercules by the pond, about 75 m from the house, alive but unable to stand.  Hercules died on the way to see the vet in Kemptville.  The vet couldn't find an exact cause, but saw signs of internal bleeding.  He speculated about cancer, although I wonder if Hercules finally realized his dream of cornering a deer and received a fatal kick for his troubles.  Hercules was ten.

Dawn, Chris and their boys (Shay and Matt) had always been fond of Hercules, having known him since he was a puppy.  We'd spent many hours with Hercules at their property, which I've always fondly referred to as, "Fair Prospect" (from the A & E version of Pride and Prejudice).  Hercules loved to romp with the other dogs, roll himself in the dirtiest parts of the paddock, and then plunge into the pool.  He needed to run, and when it became clear last year that we could no longer provide him with a happy life in the City, Dawn and Chris generously agreed to take him.

We purchased Hercules from a breeder in Quebec City as a fifth birthday present for Thomas.  He was a purebred Brittany, just a little too independent for a field dog and with the wrong markings for a show dog.  Instead of the requisite white stripe down his forehead, he had a white heart.  And a big heart... a sweet heart.  From the moment that he arrived at our home in the co-op, he became the darling of the children in the courtyard.  He tolerated any amount of enthusiastic cuddling and wrestling, and always greeted every girl and boy with an eager, welcoming kiss.

Thomas fell in love with Hercules immediately, although in the first few years he would say that Herc was more my dog than his dog.  As Thomas grew, however, he and Hercules became greater buddies.  I'm pretty sure that Hercules and Thomas thought of each other as siblings.

Hercules loved nothing more than to run through fields and forests, or to plunge for a cooling dip into a lake or river.  Spring through autumn were his seasons.  He never grew accustomed to winter, being prone to ice buildup in his paws, and our only attempt to fit him with booties provided some despairing looks and an exaggerated clown walk.

Hercules loved to go to canoing, although a romp on the shore was never far from his mind.  He accompanied Thomas and I on many fishing trips, and never failed to make us laugh at his reaction when we hauled in a pike or bass.  Together, he and I explored many waterways and wetlands.

Goodbye sweet companion.  We won't forget you.  I certainly won't forget the feel of your coat under my hand as I reached down unconsciously to pet you, or your comforting smell during our raucous "family cuddles" on Tom's bed.  Thank you for the happiness that you brought to our family, as well as Chris and Dawn's family.

Images of summer

The signs of summer's demise appear all around.  I feel the season slipping away from me.  We have passed lethargically through some of the hottest days on record.  The asters and goldenrods are blooming in fields and along roadsides.  The starlings have begun to gather, while all the other birds have gone into hiding.  Only the cicadas seem evident, trilling in the grasses and trees.

The farmers brought in the first cut of hay in June, and some are now starting the second cut.  Hay bales stand sentinel in the fields, or in shrink-wrapped loaves along fencelines.  In the market, local vegetables brighten the stalls, and the first sweet corn went on sale along the roadsides this week.  The midday sky arches blue overhead, and thunderstorms rumble in the evenings.

I still haven't replaced my camera.  Fortunately, I've been able to borrow one occasionally.  But with or without a photographic record, summer always passes for me in images -- in landscapes and portraits.  I pause often to witness the moments and places, turning for a second look and a lasting memory.  I sit often on the front porch or back step in the evening, playing guitar in the cooling air and cultivating my own image.

Here are few images of this summer and summers past.