I stood in the Lucas Meadow in the middle of a barrage of grasshoppers. There must have been something about the rising heat, the falling night, the ripeness of grasses--something that mustered this army in the meadow where they have never been in such legion before. I must have seen a thousand grasshoppers, alarums and excursions clicking over the clover, knee-high to me.
It's hot and summer. Dillard in standing in the middle of a field, and that field is boiling with grasshoppers. I know those kind of summer days. The air, thick as a milkshake. The sky, so blue it hurts to look at it. Insects buzz the day in half. Just breathing raises a sweat.
Today was nothing like that. When I got home from work, I spent two hours shoveling snow. It was cold, dry work. When I was done, I drank about two gallons of water. Tomorrow morning, the plows are going to blow by my house around four o'clock in the morning. Then I will have to spend another hour shoveling again.
Winter used to be my favorite season of the year. I loved the early sunsets. The cold. The dark. The first snow of the season was a big deal. Of course, I've always loved Christmas, so that probably had a lot to do with it. I still love the holidays, but it wouldn't break my heart if I'm singing "Green Christmas" instead of "White Christmas" on December 25.
I'm too tired to come up with anything deep and meaningful tonight. If I didn't have to move the snow, I would probably still be a fan of winter. However, I'm a grownup now. Grownups have to do things that suck--pay bills, hold down a job, get cars fixed, eat vegetables. It's all part of the deal.
Saint Marty is tired of being a grownup.