True, it's not perfect,
but of the selection of
months currently in stock,
August is
one
of the better models.
August weather, for
example, is a paragon of
reliability. Unlike
such fickle months as
April and November, August
offers weather that is
trustworthy
and consistent. It's
hot. Occasionally
hot and dry, more often
hot and humid, but hot.
The August heat, aside
from its innate
dependability, is
possessed of
multiple virtues. It
provides an excuse for
lethargy that at other
times of the year would be
taken for mere sloth.
It allows for the happy
continuance of such folk
rituals as feature page
photographs of an egg
sautéing on the sidewalk.
And, as without the night
we would not appreciate
the day, without the heat
we would never know the
exquisite pleasure of
stepping from the outside
mugginess into a
refrigerated restaurant on
those nights when we're
too lazy to cook.
August is unhurried.
A late entry in the annual
lineup, August didn't join
the calendar club until 46
B.C. No doubt it
arrived several centuries
after most of the other
months because it just
didn't move very fast.
Along with July, August
nestled in at the end of
the summer, ultimately
forcing Sextillius into
retirement. Before
everything was settled,
the Emperor Augustus
purloined a day from poor
February and tacked it on
the end of his namesake so
as not to be bested by
that other Caesar's month.
Thus, on the long side as
months go, August is
replete with time.
There's never
all that much to do in
August. By now it's
too late to initiate more
plans for the summer and
too early to adopt
autumnal hyperactivity.
Many summer programs are
over. Most
things
cultural are off-season.
Nothing is on television
except repeats of programs
that weren't worth
watching the first time.
Every second person is on
vacation and
organizational wheels roll
forward at a leisurely
pace.
August is non-judgmental.
In August, it's possible
to lie on the beach and
not even pretend to read.
Indolence is acceptable in
August. August is
fruit salad and fresh corn
for supper and no one
really cares, as long as
there's enough iced tea.
By August, the garden is
what it is. Most
everything that is going
to die has done so and
whatever has decided to
live is on its own.
The grass browns a bit.
Flowers and vegetables
alike are heading past
ripe. A feast for
the body and fine food for
the eyes, vermilion
tomatoes, emerald peppers
and amethyst eggplants
abound in August.
(We won't discuss zucchini
here.)
Augusts' most sterling
attribute, however, is the
utter absence of holidays
within its bounds.
This unique quality sets
it above and apart from
all other months.
There is in August not one
single officially ordained
occasion, no obligatory
rituals to endure, no
traditions to defend.
None of the remaining 11
yearly segments is so
blessed. For 31
wonderful days, we need
muster neither ceremonious
solemnity nor artificial
frivolity. Not once
in all of August are we
forced by governmental
decree to survive our
Monday on a Tuesday and -
no small comfort - we
always know when our trash
will be picked up.
Other months expect so
much. July always
insists on at least one
massive gathering of the
clan around a smoking
grill while in August
family picnics are deemed
optional. August
demands no presents and no
resolutions. It
requires no greeting
cards, no decorations.
Never in the long length
of August are we
intimidated by the media
soup that engulfs us into
purchasing flowers, boxes
of candy, plastic pumpkins
or green beer.
August is as it is with
good design. Without
the uncluttered expanse of
August, we could not face
the frenetic rigors of
fall. August,
despite the largely
ceremonial start of school
shoehorned in before Labor
Day, is an extended
furlough, a megadose of
R&R to bolster us on that
steep haul to winter.
The days shorten without
our notice and through
torpid,
unstructured August we
store energy to be
summoned at a later date.
Up autumn's incline it
will carry us, over the
summit of the seasons to
next spring's giddy
downhill run, landing us
in yet another summer.
