I
don’t know what
month Cain killed Abel, but I am willing to bet money that it was August. If,
as T. S. Eliot wrote, "April is the cruelest month . . . mixing memory and desire
. . . " then August is surely the longest, dragging-est, whiney-est, most quarrelsome
and disagreeable month, mixing boredom and discontent. All the shine has worn
off the things which, in June, seemed so exciting and fun. Children who were in
their swimsuits and flip flops by 6:30 a.m. that first week, jumping up and down,
asking every five minutes what time the pool opened, now whine, "Do we have
to go swimming?" Nobody cares if they ever eat another bite of watermelon in their
lives. The same boys who were up at dawn each morning raring to go, who could
be seen only as quick brown blurs from the corner of your eye, bicycle centaurs,
barely able to hold still long enough to bolt a PB and J, in August wake at noon
sluggish and morose. They drape themselves over the furniture, staring blankly
for hours at Popeye cartoons that their grandmothers watched as young girls. Nothing
is fun, nothing tastes good, they hate each other. "MOM! He is SO STUPID! He thinks
that zzzzz should xxxxx with the kkkkk to kill the wwww! Why did you even have
him in the first place? HE IS SO STUPID!" As if, when presented with a brand new
little bundle of pink and white baby swaddled in a soft blanket, I might have
looked into Baby’s face and then in horror at the nurse, "Oh no! Take this one
back! You can tell just by looking at him that he will think he can use a Whatsit
to stun the Zorgoff, when everyone knows you have to get the Key first! Take him
away. He’s going to be SO STUPID!"
Everything was beautiful in June.
There were days and weeks and months to look forward to, filled with the prospect
of Camp and cook-outs and fireworks. Endless marshmallows. Fish sticking their
slick heads up out of glistening water and grinning toothlessly, saying, "Pretty-please
catch me, I’m here, I’m yours and I have a thousand million brothers." Miles and
miles of uncharted territory to explore, depths to plunge and adventure around
every corner. There was buried treasure out there somewhere and the possibility
it could be found by a boy who was smart enough and brave enough and didn’t have
to come in until 10:00. That was June. This is August. It is hot and muggy. Whatever
treasure might have been glimmering in a cool, dark place then has certainly dissolved
and rotted in the heat by now. Been eaten by dogs. Anyway, gone, and if not gone
then not worth the trouble. Nothing is worth the trouble. And isn’t there anything
good to eat?
Sheesh!
As far as I am concerned,
school cannot start soon enough.
You know that summer is well and truly
over, no matter what the calender might say, when Boy 1 innocently sticks his
foot out while taking out the trash, stretching perhaps, or imagining that he
would someday earn a place in a modern dance troupe, and Boy 2 (the STUPID one)
runs into it. Because he’s . . . well, you know. It’s not Boy 1's
fault. He was just . . . you know . . . sticking his foot out. The last thing
he wants in the world is to hurt anybody, even somebody TOO STUPID
TO WATCH WHERE THEY’RE GOING! Dammit. Huh? No way, Mom! That’s cussing! Cussing
is just as bad as hurting STUPID PEOPLE. Bed? Maaahhhh-uuuum! It isn’t even dark
yet!
Sheesh!
So good-bye summer! Hello school! I will pay any
amount in pre-worn-out looking cargo pants and Chucks, buy any number of three
ring binders, pocket folders, boxes of Kleenex and bottles of hand sanitizer.
I will agree to chair any committee, sell any number of raffle tickets, do anything,
say anything, I will personally buy 900 pounds of chocolate and eat it standing
on my head. Just let August be over. Soon.
© Elizabeth Bussey Sowdal
"The
Girl Detective's Theory of Everything"
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