Hot August Nights With Brother Love

Hot August night and the leaves hanging down

and the grass on the ground smellin' sweet
Move up the road to the outside of town
and the sound of that good gospel beat
Sits a ragged tent where there ain't no trees
And that gospel group tellin' you and me
It's Love Brother Love say Brother Love's traveling salvation show
Pack up the babies and grab the old ladies and everyone goes
'Cause everyone knows Brother Love's show

"Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show"
Neil Diamond

The Long Hot Summer - Lammas

August First is the day which falls half-way between Midsummer and the Autumn Equinox, and is referred to as a "cross-quarter" day, by those who describe the calendar as the Wheel of the Year. A Google search yields the "history" of Lammas, Lamas, or "First Harvest" complete with photos of sparse handfuls of two or three green bean pods, a few meager carrots and green onions held proudly in amateur gardener hands.
But, for those of us who live in the still rural, agricultural areas of the midwestern United States, there is no doubt that August, even a week into the month, is the height of Summer ... those "lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer." Hot, lush, full-bodied, pungent, juicy, close, stuffy, damp, stormy, noisy, delicious days, overdone, steamy and suspended in time, waiting-with-bated- breath-days of a season which is dying but doesn't yet know it. Decades ago, centuries ago, (and even today in countries in the southern hemisphere), people tuned into the rhythm of the planet and just slowed down with the season as the temperatures soared to finally signal the crops that it was time to stop growing and begin the ripening, finishing off process. Even today in the Indiana countryside, urbanized as it is, there are thousands of plants which are beginning the process of ripening and displaying the fruits, berries, grains and blossoms which have been the focus of maturation since the end of planting season. Not all the produce of the growing season has been planted by the hand of man, nor do a great many of the so-called "hobby farmers" seem to appreciate the wild and independent vigor of the natural flora as it grows in the still untamed country-side. The small farm owners mow without ceasing. They mow roadside ditches, woodland carpets and even pasture is trimmed back ... sort of reminds me of the song Burl Ives used to sing about little rows of "ticky tacky" houses. Listen closely and even over the incessant drone of power mowers, and mini-John Deeres, one can hear the whispered voice of the natural inhabitants sighing, "Be careful! We'll take you back! No one will ever know you were here if you stop mowing!

Like Nature, August is not to be denied, and there is still something, deep in the soul of those
of a certain age, which will not be denied either. It is time to just slow down and take a deep breath, pack a lunch, perhaps grab a cold beer and go sit on the bank of a creek or slow moving river, or even push a row-boat into a lake and drop a line in the water. It is a hot, sweaty, sticky uncomfortable month - the only sane path to survival lies in giving in to the need to move as little as possible and not elevate the body's temperature past exhaustion. Folks these days have no common sense about survival in this kind of weather ... after all, we do have air conditioning don't we? Get those kids back into the classroom earlier every year, bundle those boys up in shoulder pads and keep them running football plays in 90+ heat, and budget expensive drinks to keep them hydrated. Above all, don't lose a minute, a day or a week that can be devoted to productivity and profit ... gotta justify that bottom line thing.

No, Summer is not what it used to be - despite the fact that neo-Pagans contrive to commemorate Lammas harvest with patio-pot grown vegetables. I truly don't mean to ridicule the efforts of modern day Pagans, or Greenies to reach back to the earth or try to stir some memory of the time when the planet did sustain us with harvests of bounty. But why is it, for Goddess sake, that someone always has to write a how-to-do-it book, blog or PDF pamphlet and give a serious talk to a gathering of serious, dedicated, focused, and too often, self-righteous, folk who are THE ONES who care about saving the planet.

A few days ago, driving down a country road, I slowed down as I approached a low bridge and came to a stop to allow two young girls to cross the road in front of me. They were Amish children, girls in their immaculate dresses, bonnets and aprons, one barefoot, and the other in brand new shoes three sizes too big. They were sharing the handles of a large bushel basket full of sweet corn fresh from the field where they'd just picked it. I've seldom seen such natural smiles ... fresh faces, a bit flushed from the exertion of carrying the basket and their climb, but also filled with the delight of being alive, and doing something useful and just a bit adventurous. A real harvest chore, headed for the family's evening dinner.

I remember being that age long ago, and walking barefoot down dusty country roads, watching the powdery stuff puff between my toes. Sitting in my grandmother's kitchen garden, hot sun beating down on my back, picking ripe tomatoes to eat right there, seasoned with salt from a stolen shaker. Going fishing or swimming in the "old swimming hole," or just slipping off to the cool depths of a hay barn, gazing out the big door, and day-dreaming about the future. August is a wanton mistress of a month, she sings the siren's song to those who want to steal away and be lazy - I wonder if that song is the same faint melody the hobby gardeners struggle to hear today as they celebrate their symbolic "First Harvest."

Summertime and the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is HIGH
Oh your Daddy's rich and your ma is good lookin'
So hush little baby, don't you cry