The summer of 2017 is almost over.
How’d that happen?
It seems like only a minute ago, I was painstakingly scattering seeds in my miniature vegetable garden, being positive and hopeful.
Now, surprisingly, I’m enjoying the fruits of my labour, trotting out to the garden every night after work with my little tin bowl gathering peas and carrots for supper.
And, at the very end of my garden, against my little white fence, blooming just like the picture on the seed package, are my sweet peas, crawling crazily up the white picket fence, their delicate blossoms of pinks and purple and white colouring my world in a most pleasant way.
I’m so proud of those blossoms that I burst forth into song whenever I pick a bouquet.
Even as I write thus, I feel a slight twinge of embarrassment. I should probably apologize to my neighbors for such untimely serenades.
Yes, summer has been a fleeting moment in time, vanishing into the annals of history far too quickly.
Soon, the season will be replaced by fall and then, inevitably, we will be hauling out our winter boots and windshield scrapers and worrying about Christmas.
But, fleeting as it is, I like summer. And this summer was no exception.
The word holidays has a nice ring to it. And summer holiday sounds even better.
To me, summer is friends scattered around my flower-laden deck, chatting comfortably amongst themselves until darkness takes over and gently steals the day away. And then, finally, summer is music as we all gather around the piano in my living room.
And it is good.
Summer is little children, gathered around my kitchen table eating hot dogs and ketchup. Mostly ketchup.
Summer is the delight of a long leisurely lunch on the patio of a luscious winery in BC. The lunch was so delicious, I almost forgot about the price.
Summer is the satisfying snapping sound lids make when they seal jars of freshly canned peaches.
Summer is an afternoon of clothes shopping with a teenage granddaughter, who holds the wisdom of the world in her lovely green/blue eyes. Summer is bagging cherries in my sticky kitchen with the help of a curly haired grandchild.
Summer is these special moments and more, much more.
Ahh, moments too special to be forgotten.
There were, of course, those other moments, moments that should, perhaps, be forgotten.
Moments like me struggling to surf behind my son’s boat.
No matter how hard I tried, and how much I visualized myself being cool and athletic, I couldn’t get up. I ended up taking several face plants in the water, determined to try again. And again. Still couldn’t do it.
It was a humiliating experience and, therefore, not worth elaborating on.
But still, even though I failed at my endeavor, it was like magic being out in the boat with the sun dancing on the waves and the sounds of laughter ricocheting into the still summer air.
And just last week, standing at my front door was a little guy come to visit, his arms filled with a huge bouquet of flowers. Later, when we went for a walk to the playground, he handed me a yellow weed with the same flourish as he had handed me the lovely, store bought flowers.
And, once again, I accepted graciously, because, it is after all, the thought that counts.
Summer is all of the above and now, sadly, summer is one more thing.
Treena Mielke is the editor of the Rimbey Review