In August

The mornings have turned relatively chilly: when I awaken at 6:00am the temperature measures in the 50s and the air is crisp. The birds outside of my window sing their plans for departure as they fortify themselves with food placed in the feeders. Crickets and cicadas sing a very different tune, Terrapin Station/And I know we’ll be there soon” sing the Grateful Dead. In August the chirping of the crickets and cicadas fill the evenings along with the katydids, though honestly I can’t tell the difference in the sounds. In August summer begins its slow close. For almost fifty years as August arrives my anxiety would blossom as body and soul began preparation for the beginning of school, for meetings and classroom presences. Syllabi had to be readied; the ease of summer had to be brought to an end in anticipation of bells and clocks and time constraints. Summer’s books turned into assigned readings. Shorts and t-shirts were folded and stored and shirts and chino slacks were sent out to the dry cleaners for laundering and pressing. 

Even as a child August portended the end of summer. Advertisements for school supplies have already begun to inundate the internet, and sales on children’s attire scream across pages of the newspapers. My mother would begin her shopping for new chino pants and dress shirts in preparation for the first day of school.  Dungarees, shorts or t-shirts were not considered appropriate school dress, and I don’t remember if sneakers were permitted except for gym class. New clothes were important to a new school year, but I can’t imagine now why that was so.Perhaps it was the opinions of our elders. I would anticipate reunion with school mates and the return of schedules and structure. It was a bitter and sweet feeling. 

In retirement my August begins as it has always begun: with the onset of a familiar anxiety and a bit of regret. This response to August is, I know, psychic habit. On the calendar and in the air August triggers a bodily response long ago established by my life in the schools. There occurs a certain contraction accompanied by a frisson that casts off summer and readies for the change of routine and for the quick advent of Fall and for inevitable winter. But now in retirement I remember I am by choice not returning to school in the Fall and my breath eases as my body relaxes. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. I have no need to travel anywhere.  I need prepare for nothing, and the projects I have initiated can continue unabated. The dreams of summer can continue into Fall and Winter.

I recall that the Dog Days of summer refer not to the response of dogs to the weather but to the position of a constellation. I recall that in the month of August I celebrate the passing of another personal year: this year I complete my 73^rd year and enter into my 74^th. Mostly I feel just fine, but as a hypochondriac there must be always something slightly amiss, and I can discover all kinds of issues with which I can trouble my patient doctor. I will spare him for now and maintain a list for some future delivery. I want to get on time to the end of my memoir so that I can begin its sequel. My friend says the first line of the next installment should read “I thought I’d be dead, but I’m not.” I thought to title the sequel, “Pay No Attention to the Man Behind the Curtain.” The present writing is entitled “Anxious Am I.” About it I remain anxious.