For the week of August 27 - September 2, 2003

Bye bye, Ahgust,
good riddance

Commentary by Betty Bell

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Here’s an interesting experiment: Go to the mirror, look at yourself straight on, and say August—AHG-ust. See the way that first syllable pulls your chin down around your navel--now your usually genial face shows dejection and dismay. That’s Ahgust for you. February celebrates the memory of Abraham and George and St. Valentine, but Ahgust is so dull it was never bestowed with a day to commemorate anything. It’s so flat-line you can get down on its face and shoot an aggie that’ll just keep rollin’ forever. But hang on. It’s almost over. Only four more days of total predictability, of never waking up and wondering what kind of day it’ll be because you already know—Ahgust is the month that clones itself day after day after day.

A seldom discussed aspect of Ahgust is how, without question, so many of us accepted the fairy tale that Ahgust is the stellar month of the year, and if you wanted to take your vacation then, you’d need to get a jump on your peers and reserve it early. And, pray tell, who ever would tell such a fairy tale about the splendors of Ahgust? Well, the powerful, of course—the big guns, the folks in charge. Everyone in charge of anyone knows that productivity sinks below sea level in Ahgust, and it’s the primo bottom-line time to turn ’em loose and ship ’em out.

Even the aspen trees in my backyard succumbed to the doldrums about mid-way through the month. When the wind whips up it’s dusty Ahgust whirly-gigs, they no longer whisper and whoosh as they did in June and July. Now they crinkle and crackle. Every bit of moisture—that friend of skin and hair--has been sucked up and away. Maybe Ahgust is the month your chip shots finally land reasonably close to the pin, and your first serve is a Venus or Serena bullet, but treadmill days are too high a price to pay.

Think about how it is on a winter night when you go to bed and as soon as your head hits the pillow there’s a wee rush of optimism: This might be the night of the big storm. And if it happens, as soon as you wake up, even before you pull the blinds to look outside for confirmation, you already know. Falling snow has a unique feel, not easily explained, that tells you things have changed. In Ahgust, there’s not even a whisper of expectation of what tomorrow will bring.

Ahgust is hard on everyone—it definitely brings out the worst in kids. When I was your age and had wee-ones running around, by the time Ahgust was front and center it was "what’s there to do? What’s there to do?" all day, every day. A whiny cry, if I remember right, that lasted almost until they were old enough to drive. Ahgust—that’s when you need September, need the time when the kids get all spiffed up in their new duds and set off for school. I was never among the tiny group of mothers who felt a terrible wrench when their wee ones started their first day of learning-while-confined. That first day I’d run from one room to another, just about manic with glee with so much free time stretching out before me. Like a cheer-leader, I’d throw my arms high and chant things like "Ho ho for the end of Ahgust … ho ho for the first day of school!" That’s the kind of mother I was. Maybe that’s why the kids called me Betty instead of Mom--they saw me go to the big calendar every morning and tick-off the remaining days until school. When my first kid started school, I did have a couple of fleeting smidgens of guilt about my excessive joy in my new freedom. I came to my senses, though, when a cursory probe of my psyche uncovered scads of serious matters to feel guilty about that quite eclipsed the venial sin guilt in joy at the start of school.

But I’ve strayed. The good news is there’re only four more days until the best month of the year. OK, arguably the best month of the year--but unequivocally the fastest. Even with a four-day head start to anticipate it, September’s going to zip by faster than cars that pass you on the way to Hailey. We People of the Season like the year spiked with change, and change is the very essence of September. The shadows stretch way out, and even the trees seem taller, as though they’re reaching for the deep blue that replaces this metallic Ahgust sky. And the wind runs out of gas and leaves us cotton-quiet days. It finally starts to get dark at a reasonable hour—and there’re hints of crispness and color—and suddenly we feel gung-ho about getting in shape. Soon enough there’ll be glassed-over puddles to stamp. And then the last and most magical gift of the year—snow! Even worn-out knees haven’t dampened my anticipation of snow.

I wouldn’t play hopscotch when I was a kid—no yelling, no jostling, no spirited victory celebration when it was over. Just patch up the lines and start again. So hopscotch comes to mind now. Wouldn’t it be great to paint one big hopscotch someplace, name each space a month, toss the token in the middle of Ahgust, and then just skip right around it forever.

 

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