Without warning, mornings have suddenly turned brisk and find me searching for slippers and wool sweaters upon waking. Taking long underwear inventory. Organizing mittens and hats. I don’t mind, I love the colder months, but as summers go, this one has been mild so I’m not leaving it behind in earnest. I’d actually be okay with it staying longer, which is something I don’t normally say.
Potatoes are being dug a bushel at a time right now, tomatoes harvested at nearly the same rate, fall beets are looking plump, and the final planting of bush beans is coming in young and tender. I aspire to be better at recording garden harvests, but each year it just doesn’t happen. I do make general notes and such, but truly weighing every little morsel we bring in? Nah. It would be good information though, maybe next year.
Emily has returned to school and although I didn’t carry any expectations, I can now say transitioning into year two is easier. We met her roommate’s parents and they are the nicest people. Dad even commented on Emily’s Tort Law Museum poster, saying his own father was friends with Ralph Nader (who founded the museum). We’ve never met another soul that knows anything about this shrine of tort law, so Adam and Emily were pretty chuffed.
It’s been two weeks since the eclipse and I’m still recalling the eerily gorgeous shift of light, the way everyone stopped and looked up, away from their screens, away from themselves. They said to expect changes in animal behavior, but I wasn’t sure I’d be lucky enough to observe anything in this realm. But then, as Emily and I were sitting on the back deck, I heard an animal noise that to me sounded sort of like the chirp of a big bullfrog (there is a vernal pond close by), unusual for an August afternoon. It was loud and very close, and not exactly bullfrog-like, but it was the first thought that came to mind. Emily commented that it was actually the sound of a raccoon. Even more unusual on an August afternoon. Then, in the next moment, behind us, an immense fluttery descent as a bird crashed to the forest floor. Dropped right out of the tree. Both within a minute or two of each other, right at the apex of the event.
It’s been a summer filled with music and gardening. I figured out early on that I wouldn’t be in Vermont as much this summer, so I had to replace that with the next best thing(s). If you haven’t yet picked up Jason Isbell’s new record, Nashville Sound, you should do that. Like most songwriter offerings, it deserves to be listened to as a full body of work, start to finish, not just a cherry-picked radio-friendly track or two. For as long as I can remember, the saddest thought I’ve known is that one day, Adam or I will permanently go to sleep without the other. There are events in life more brutal, but pure sadness? For me, that is it. Uplifting, eh? So to hear the sentiment put into song was affirming and also a relief. Because now, rather than focus on the grief of such an idea, I can see that “maybe time running out is a gift, I’ll work hard to the end of my shift.”
If I know you pretty well, chances are I’ve asked what your “last song” might be. We tend to focus on the idea of a final meal if given the chance, but I’ve always been curious what a person’s final song would be. For decades mine was Ripple, but over the last year or so I’ve felt it wasn’t the one anymore. For a short while I thought maybe it would be In My Own Mind, a song I’ve loved for ages, but it never took root. Then I heard the closing track on Nashville Sound and now, please let it be known, if it appears I’m about to take my final breath, I’d love for someone to spin that tune. So sweet and hopeful. (Do you have a last song?)
I have a few more thoughts on the record, like how much of it is politically reflective, and when asked his thoughts about this, Jason expressed not trying to make a statement of any kind, but rather he wrote these songs for himself, serving as a personal reminder to never forget the genetic lottery he was born into – a person of correct gender, with correct skin color, in the correct nation, and to always remember the immense privilege and responsibility that comes with possessing such things.
One more thing. We had the chance to see Isbell live earlier this summer, and there was a point in the show, a moment of pause between songs as Jason switched out guitars and checked tuning. The venue was small and the room quiet, nary a scent of tobacco or weed in the place, and no reflective blue screens waving around as the artist had requested folks to "enjoy the show with your iBalls, not your iPhones." It was a pretty chill scene despite the energy behind Jason's crazy-good band, The 400 Unit. Then, out of the near silence, an obligatory concert heckler found his voice. Only on this occasion, the call was not for a cover of Freebird or some other predictable concert-speak, but rather a loud and clear expression of gratitude: "Jason, thank you for your music; your lyrics help me to understand the human condition." It was the most accurate and heartfelt heckling I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing. The entire place concurred. A summer highlight, for sure.
___________________________________________
To be honest, my heart is kind of heavy today, for the same reasons yours might be, but I haven't written here in some time so I thought I should give it a go. It seems trivial to offer random musings about music and gardening with fires raging and cities flooding and leaders looking to upend the lives of so many young people. It's all too much. But today I'm alive and best I can tell, there's still some time left on my shift, so I'll show up and do what I can. As I told my sister this morning, who lives in Irma's Floridian path and may be evacuating: This home welcomes refugees, come anytime.