August 10, 1989

The dog days came in purring rather than snarling, but August can't trick us. It can cuddle up to us with record-breaking cold temperatures, and it can softly lick us with gentle breezes from the north, but we won't be lulled into thinking it's a lap dog.
August is not a month to let into your house, into your good graces, regardless of how cute and docile it pretends to be. Chain the month up outside and use a thick chain, because sooner or later its true nature will appear. Sooner or later August will bare its teeth and maul you.
We've see it happen time after time at the coarse turns of the year. A few balmy days in February and people are ready to forgive the prodigal month its transgressions; just in time to have February open the front door and blow the early Easter greeting cards from the mantel with an icy blast.
So, too, with August. We expect such poor behavior from it that when we get a couple days of decency we trumpet its praises. "We don't need to go to Colorado this year," we say, grinning in the glow of the 60 degree morning. "You just can't beat August in Kansas." Children ride their bikes in the middle of the kindly day. Old folks tend their gardens, unconcerned with the sun.
But, believe us, August is out there, hiding behind a tree, chuckling devilishly, waiting for the chance to attack. And so, even though it is a calm 60 degree morning with no mugginess to be found, we will complain. We will complain as a public service, intent on rustling people from their dog day complacence, intent on vaccinating them with a dose of surliness so they will be able to battle the August infection when it returns.
Atop the list of public service complaints is the front page of the Fall Schedule distributed this wee by Reno County Community College, (sometimes mistakenly referred to as HCC.) The Fall Schedule for this school of higher education sports the motto, "Today's Plans...Tomorrow's Realities." Trite, but no cause for outrage. However, the motto is strategically placed beneath a buxom, blown-dried female student who is making goo-goo eyes with a robust, blown-dried male student who is returning the starry-eyed gaze.
Although the girls is holding a book, it's obvious this couple is not discussing Plato. Is this what higher education has become--a moony-eyed ed and a moon-eyed co-ed exchanging sweet nothings in the shadow of the library? Of all the images of education the college could have used, is this the image which best exemplifies education at Reno County Community College? Is the chance to meet members of the opposite sex the primary attraction of the college?
It may be nice outside now, but August is lurking.
And in August, as in the other traditionally warm months of the year, there are social goons, their car windows down and their power-boost stereo systems cranked up as far as the dial will go. On winter days, when even the socially stunted find it necessary to roll up their car windows, polite society is not assaulted by mega level blasts of doltish decibels. During those blessed months the decibels rage inside the goons' cars, adding to their addlepation.
But with the warmth of spring the windows come down, and the cars come out, and the peaceful streets are rattled with pulsating noise. Their minds numbed by the perpetual onslaught, these villians of summer think everyone in the neighborhood wants to listen to their favorite untunes.
Last week we witnessed a woman walking with a cane on Main Street, her hearing weakened by age, she hesitated and looked skyward as a blaring goon machine approached. She looked toward the heavens as if the apocolypse had begun. When she realized the clamor was from a car radio, she shrugged, knowing evil was yet to have its day.
Stay cranky, people. Be not swayed by August's gentle facade. Don't imagine it to be a month of higher learning and sweet music on the radio. As soon as you settle back in the porch swing with a good book, Brahms playing on your stereo, some starry-eyed son of August will drive by and blast you from your bliss. That's just the nature of August.... ~T.Stucky

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

August 31, 1978

A large spider, exhibiting all the attributes which we humans strive for, has taken up residence outside our north window in Varner. Her (How to tell a her from a he?) intelligence is beyond question. She spins her web across the window every evening so that when the lights in the house attract bugs she has a ready food supply.
Her artistic ability would embarrass Picasso. Not only does she create a beautiful and functional piece of art, she also creates her own medium.
Kindness, that most human of characteristics, is also displayed by this unlikely creature. When a moth which is too small to make a nourishing snack gets captured in her web, she will free it.
Showing astounding perserverance, she quickly repairs holes in her web, torn by the wind. Time after time she repairs with no sign of irritation or anger.
The single attribute she lacks is an attractive appearance. She has eight legs, and a large round body topped by two bulbous eyes. Certainly not the stuff of good dreams.
Looks aside, she is a creature that should be appreciated, even emulated. Yet, when we see one of her kin in the house we quickly put it out of our misery.
At the same time, we feed a cute dog expensive food, fondle it daily, and make certain it has all its life-continuing shots. For what reason? The dog is neither artistic nor intelligent. Its kindness consists of slobbering on anyone's hand.
Yesterday, after giving the dog a mound of vittles, we noticed the spider looking reproachfully down at us. We were so embarrassed we wrote this column.... ~T.Stucky

August 2, 1991

Our neighbors were particularly rowdy Saturday evening. Blame it on the weather; a cool breeze pushed the soft clouds across the blue sky, making it feel more like October than late July. It was a perfect evening to be raucous.
Sitting on the back steps watching the day end, observing a spider perform a death-defying bungee trick, leaping from the corner of the house with no more than a thin strand of web to prevent him or her from crashing into the pebbles far below, the calm evening was shattered when our blue jay neighbors started bickering.
At the top of the maple tree the father blue jay said something the mother didn’t care to hear. She let him know in no uncertain terms, her complaints beginning low and guttural and ending with screams. Chastened, he responded with screams of his own. Back and forth they yelled, until one of their offspring, now old enough to be off on his own (perhaps the source of the squabble) few near his mother and begged for an after-dinner snack.
Dutifully, the mother flew off in search of something edible, leaving the father to squawk beneath his bird breath.
Focus shifts to the bare branches atop an elm tree where two Mississippi kites call for “Ce-cile, Ce-cile.” A pack of starlings, having dropped graffiti on the sidewalk, swarm around the majestic kites, like a ghetto gang around uptown celebrities. The kites, still whistling for “Ce-cile,” soar easily above the tree until the starling gang loses interest in harassment and flies off in search of other delinquencies.
Our neighborhood kites are so gracious in flight and manner that we wonder if they are behavioral mutants. Kindred of our kites have been known to dive bomb small children innocently playing and little old ladies peacefully tending their gardens. We have long hoped a kite would attack us as we pushed the lawnmower around the yard, giving us justification for ceasing such mindless activity. But our neighborhood kites simply soar and whistle for “Ce-cile,” as passive as butterflies.
As the kites lift skyward they avoid the chattering chimney swifts which dart and dash across the sky, gulping winged insects. Looking like cigar stubs with sings, the swifts regularly race into the chimney to feed their young, who wait open-mouthed in mud nests. High-pitched twittering billows from the chimney as the young greet their parents.
A red-headed woodpecker swoops into the honey locust tree and begins hammering on a dead limb. Woodpecker skulls have thick walls and woodpecker brains have a tough outer membrane, preventing addlepation when the feathered jackhammers knock their way through bark and wood in search of grubs. But one wonders about the genetic transfer of intelligence from generation to generation.
On the lawn, a robin takes advantage of the recent rain, hopping from worm to worm, hesitating between gulps to cock his head and search for cats. When a treeful of sparrows holding a cacophonous convention down the alley suddenly hushes, the robin senses a predator. Sure enough, our cat, whose reputation as a blood-thirsty marauder must be well-known to the feathered community, sneaks around the corner of the garage with both eyes on the robin. Forewarned by the silenced sparrows, the robin pulls a final worm from the soft soil as he flits to the safety of the pecan tree.
The father blue jay, still agitated by his matrimonial spat, sees the cat and vents his spleen on the feline, squawking as if the cat were his wife. The cat nonchalantly strides to the porch, stretches and yawns, then lays down with closed eyes.
Atop the elm tree, two western kingbirds are now heckling the kites, periodically flying at the larger birds as if they mean business. .The kites, like the cat, confidently ignore the insults.
A pare of wrens, filled with the joy of the evening, sing to each other as they hurry to and form their tiny house.
As dusk darkens, the wrens stay home, the kites perch in peace, and the kingbirds and starling are finally still. The night is left to the cicadas and crickets.
With the sun just a faint grey smudge on the western sky, we stretch and yawn and go into our home to lay down with closed eyes. ~T.Stucky