Every summer when August rolls around, I feel a sense of panic. The summer is coming to an end, the irritating weather man on TV keeps reminding me that sunrise is later and later each day, and there’s so much I haven’t done. I wanted to make pickles and can hot peppers. I wanted to grow pumpkins and transplant flowers. I wanted to do so many things, but all I can think about lately is fall and winter.
Last week I put the thick quilt back on the bed and dug out my slippers. We’re quite happy that the wood boiler is now installed because we may be firing it up soon to heat the chilly house. And over the past couple of weekends, leaving the house early for a morning motorcycle ride, I can’t help but think of the fall. The air is cool and crisp, but the sun is bright and warm just like an early October day. And I feel happy. But then the summer-loving fan of being barefoot beats down those thoughts and forces me to think about today, now, August. It’s still summer, I still have time.
But Christmas is only 132 days away. Do you see how crazy I am? Last night I sat on the deck in shorts and a tank top knitting a wool scarf. I’m planning out Christmas crafts and thinking about making my own Christmas cards. I’ve even decided to start now, buying one Christmas gift a week to see if that cuts down on the last-minute rush and the last-minute empty bank account.
So am I rushing summer away, or am I just being organized and planning ahead? I’m not sure, but last night I was tempted to get out some Christmas DVDs so I’m thinking maybe I’m rushing it.