August 7, 1980

Speaking of dreary summers, here we are again ensconced in the doldrums. Harvest is over and the fields wait patiently for rain and a disc. The rodeo, which commands our attention for a few weeks has passed. Vacation days have come and gone quickly, leaving only fond memories and thirty-six color glossy photographs. The first day of school is still three weeks away. The next holiday, a minor one at that, is not until next month. It's hot, it's dry, and it's windy.
It must be August.
August is to the year what rind is to watermelon; something you have to suffer through to get to the good stuff. August is the chaff of the year, the stye in the eye, the pin in the balloon. It's the stumble in your step, the whirl in your pool, the scratch on your record. August is the unwelcome relative who comes to visit every summer, stays too long, and leaves only after annoying you to addlepation. August is the month of exhibition football games showcasing third-string quarterbacks and free-agent linemen. August is like the loathsome bully who blocks your path, forcing you to take the long way home. It's just not a friendly month.
It's the kind of month Dante, O'Neill, or St. Paul would write about. A troublesome time, not really deadly, merely torturous. Thirty-one days, says the calendar. Three hundred and one days says the spirit, wilted by the heat, parched by the drought, and burdened by the boredom.
John Keats doubtless had August in mind when he penned, "O aching time! O moments big as years."
It is a month of moments big as years, and the years are no the kind you fondly remember. As we plod through the seemingly interminable month of August we do so with one sustaining hope-- September.... ~T.Stucky