I spent the summer as if it would never end -- walking
naked around my apartment, sunbathing on the green lawns of Munjoy Hill, sitting on park benches, sipping rose and champagne in outdoor cafes, sniffing wild
roses, and “oohing” and “awing” at gardens blooming, fading, and blooming their Azaleas,
Lady Slippers, Iris, Peonies… in perfect timing like performers in 19th
Century French theatre a la wonderful film, Children of Paradise.
To be honest, I’m not a fan of summer, which exhausted me after years of living in Florida, but in Maine it’s different--an open-street party and invitation to take it off and show it off--if only for three months. In summer, Maine is the northeastern counterpart of an island paradise, where tourists come in droves to whale watch, ride trolleys, canoe, hike, bike islands, drink Maine beer and vodka, eat lobster, listen to live music, and shop in Portland’s Old Port, the ritzier part of town. It’s local and younger population wear short shorts to the chagrin of older New Englanders who shake their heads in disapproving nods. But summer is a time of light, openness, twinkling stars, and seeing forever in the horizon.
Because I was so present this summer it felt like eternity, as if its blue skies were permanent tattoos and its few days of unbearable heat were tortures exacted by executioners in the Middle Ages. (Maybe my excitement and commitment to summer were due to a winter with record breaking inches of snow and a spring that almost failed to make an entrance, but I was also committed to both seasons and sad when they disappeared).
Congratulations to me for living life so fully that in the span of three months I believed there was nothing else to see, do, be, or want. The experience of being present was also a memory of my first days at school when I didn't know of expectations so that developing crushes on boys and making new friends were wonderful surprises. I didn’t know a season could possess and demand my allegiance so completely like those long ago childhood days. Yet, this was now my reward for being a loyal, faithful follower of the shifty, changing seasons, which I have grown to love.
Still, Fall surprised me. Everyone said it would come, but I didn’t believe them. There were signs, though, like my cold hands and feet, bigger appetite, and chills in the night. Today, Fall officially started with highs in the 50s, a moodier sunlight, cool breezes, and smoke stacks blowing from chimneys.
Now, carnival in Maine begins, and I don’t have to go far to see it-- just outside the window of my attic apartment four maple trees, two silver and two sugar, are evidence of it all: The pretty leaves on the silver maple with its pointy edges like shooting stars are ripening in the soft oranges, yellows, and reds of mangoes ready to eat. The resilient dark green of the sugar maple’s thick foliage, though, is not too quick to comply. Its roots turn a bright yellow slowly and secretly, and Fall will have to do lots more coaxing to get it to, like in the famous words of Jack Kerouac, "burn, burn, burn, like roman candles across the night."
All the seasons hide in "my" trees waiting to show their faces, but I love best how the foliage of the silver and sugar maples reach out to each other like old friends, lovers, and companions forever faithful and loyal to the cycles of rustling, changing, falling, dying and returning.
Last winter, I vaguely remember their leaves falling onto roofs, cars, and pavements to face a browning, wet, moldy, and cancerous-looking consumption. But I won’t think about that now and focus instead on the fiery carnival of their charming fall foliage. Read my exciting memoir, " of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO.
To be honest, I’m not a fan of summer, which exhausted me after years of living in Florida, but in Maine it’s different--an open-street party and invitation to take it off and show it off--if only for three months. In summer, Maine is the northeastern counterpart of an island paradise, where tourists come in droves to whale watch, ride trolleys, canoe, hike, bike islands, drink Maine beer and vodka, eat lobster, listen to live music, and shop in Portland’s Old Port, the ritzier part of town. It’s local and younger population wear short shorts to the chagrin of older New Englanders who shake their heads in disapproving nods. But summer is a time of light, openness, twinkling stars, and seeing forever in the horizon.
Because I was so present this summer it felt like eternity, as if its blue skies were permanent tattoos and its few days of unbearable heat were tortures exacted by executioners in the Middle Ages. (Maybe my excitement and commitment to summer were due to a winter with record breaking inches of snow and a spring that almost failed to make an entrance, but I was also committed to both seasons and sad when they disappeared).
Congratulations to me for living life so fully that in the span of three months I believed there was nothing else to see, do, be, or want. The experience of being present was also a memory of my first days at school when I didn't know of expectations so that developing crushes on boys and making new friends were wonderful surprises. I didn’t know a season could possess and demand my allegiance so completely like those long ago childhood days. Yet, this was now my reward for being a loyal, faithful follower of the shifty, changing seasons, which I have grown to love.
Still, Fall surprised me. Everyone said it would come, but I didn’t believe them. There were signs, though, like my cold hands and feet, bigger appetite, and chills in the night. Today, Fall officially started with highs in the 50s, a moodier sunlight, cool breezes, and smoke stacks blowing from chimneys.
Now, carnival in Maine begins, and I don’t have to go far to see it-- just outside the window of my attic apartment four maple trees, two silver and two sugar, are evidence of it all: The pretty leaves on the silver maple with its pointy edges like shooting stars are ripening in the soft oranges, yellows, and reds of mangoes ready to eat. The resilient dark green of the sugar maple’s thick foliage, though, is not too quick to comply. Its roots turn a bright yellow slowly and secretly, and Fall will have to do lots more coaxing to get it to, like in the famous words of Jack Kerouac, "burn, burn, burn, like roman candles across the night."
All the seasons hide in "my" trees waiting to show their faces, but I love best how the foliage of the silver and sugar maples reach out to each other like old friends, lovers, and companions forever faithful and loyal to the cycles of rustling, changing, falling, dying and returning.
Last winter, I vaguely remember their leaves falling onto roofs, cars, and pavements to face a browning, wet, moldy, and cancerous-looking consumption. But I won’t think about that now and focus instead on the fiery carnival of their charming fall foliage. Read my exciting memoir, " of Ruby," available at: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00TT5DDWO.
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