It seems we get this one perfect day in the spring.
The temperatures rise and we can go out comfortably, perhaps a light wrap is all we need.
The sun breaks through the spring rain clouds, and shines on the greening Earth.
Birds sing. Hyacinths and daffodils and colt’s foot and crocuses bloom gaily.
And then it’s gone.
Next day, all the flies come out, accompanied by the ticks.
Mud tracks everywhere.
Before you know it, someone is complaining about the summer.
One perfect day.
Demanding? Perfectionists? Ultra-sensitive?
Next thing I know, folks will be complaining about the heat and humidity, the mosquitoes, the lawns we can’t keep up with.
The memory of that one perfect day fades quickly, and is lost in all the terrible days of summer.
After suffering a lot of sunshine and birdsong and camping and fishing and relaxing, you’d think folks would be glad the awful summer is over.
September first, or Labor Day, someone will turn to me and say “Next thing you know, it’ll be snowing.”
And I’ll be glad this nasty summer business is behind us so we can get back to freezing and shoveling.