We have been inundated with peaches here at Basecamp. First there was the large box of them that Robin purchased when Dakota first arrived to stay with us. That went into cobblers, pies, and desserts I can’t even name. And just when we finished them off, yesterday a friend of Robin’s brought by a gigantic box of fruit gathered from her own orchard. Already a second round of cobbler has been made. My cup, and my waistline, runneth over.
Don’t get me wrong. I love peaches. And this has been a particularly flavorful year for them. But when you look in the mirror and you could swear your color is a subtle shade of yellow, and when the announcement of dessert time doesn’t elicit a YUM! but a “yum,” it’s possible that you are approaching “over-peached.” Something that I had never believed possible.
And yet I know that when this delicious season has passed I will soon wish it had lasted longer. How fickle is man, at least this one.
Each September I amuse myself and bore you all by mentioning that this is my favorite month. It’s a month that is automatically filled with wistfulness because … if nothing else … summer is over. And then there is the changing of the color of the leaves to emphasize that point. This phase is such a brief and beautiful one that many of us occupy ourselves for a while with running about and finding as many of the gorgeous spots we can visit before those leaves are gone. And when they are, it seems like such a loooong time until they are replaced, and we have months of bare branches ahead of us.
The music of September tends to follow this same slightly melancholy course, with the obvious “September Song” right up there leading the parade. The song is a metaphor for life, of course, and I reprint the words here as the beauties that they are.
When I was a young man courting the girls
I played me a waiting game
If a maid refused me with tossing curls
I’d let the old Earth take a couple of whirls
While I plied her with tears in lieu of pearls
And as time came around she came my way
As time came around, she came
When you meet with the young girls early in the spring
You court them in song and rhyme
They answer with words and a clover ring
But if you could examine the goods they bring
They have little to offer but the songs they sing
And a plentiful waste of time of day
A plentiful waste of time
Oh, it’s a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short
When you reach September
When the Autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn’t got time for the waiting game
Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
And these few precious days
I’ll spend with you
These precious days
I’ll spend with you
Periodically I try to remember to give a little space to the non-human residents here at Basecamp. Today is such a day. Take it away, Poco and Willow.
POCO: Well, thanks for nothing, big guy, it’s been years since I’ve had a chance to speak my mind here.
WILLOW: Me, too.
POCO: Wait your turn, mouse-breath
WILLOW: You’re not the boss of me
POCO: Hey you’re not the one getting old, and who knows how may turns of the day I have left?
WILLOW: I am too getting older, it just doesn’t show
POCO: Still, how about a little deference here
WILLOW: You know you love me …
POCO: Get away
WILLOW: You know you love me …
POCO: Okay come over here and we’ll groom each other for a couple of minutes
WILLOW: Love this part
POCO: But when we’re done, would you please go somewhere and leave me alone?
WILLOW: I promise (has rear paws secretly crossed)
[This sort of interchange goes on day after day with these guys. A definite love/not love relationship on Poco’s end of things. But then for her part Willow will groom him and then give him a nasty swat at the end that starts a spat every time.]
Watched a terrific movie on Netflix the other night. Title = Worth, starring Michael Keaton, Amy Ryan, and Stanley Tucci. We were truly moved.
Could American politics be any more dismal than right now? I hope it is a low point, but who knows, with that basket of snakes running the Red Party? I keep hoping that one day the real Republicans out there who are not bats**t crazy will wake up, look in the mirror and say to themselves “Holy Pancakes! This is our country that we are totally trashing! Let’s stop this nonsense and begin to help out wherever and whenever we can!”
Almost makes you want to get on that next Elon Musk rocket and take it all the way to Mars. “Yes please, a one-way ticket, and when we get there a simple tiny home will do us very well. We don’t need a yard, in fact we’d rather not have one at all. Don’t want to get hooked on that old bluegrass-lawn thing again. We do have two pets, but they will be of great help in case there are any Martian rodent populations to deal with. What skillset would I bring to the new city? Well, I’ve been writing a blog for years … what’s that? Go to the end of the line? Dang.”
Saturday morning we took off for Dakota’s first look at what is variously called the Million Dollar Highway, or the Red Mountain Road, or the Road of Certain Death (which is my personal name for it). He was impressed, but unafraid. We lunched in Ouray and then continued on to something called the Red Mountain Overlook. From there a beautiful look at these special mountains.
It’s hard to imagine ever tiring of looking at them, even as jaded as I’ve become.
2 thoughts on “Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor”
Please tell Dakota if he is unafraid of the “Million Dollar Highway”; he will never be my personal tour guide .Unless it’s in a one story building.
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I will pass that along to him. But as you know, the height-fearless have a great deal of trouble understanding the height-challenged.