So it’s the dog days of summer once more. Late August in Crosslake Minnesota for me was always symbolic of a month that wasn’t really summer and wasn’t quite fall. It’s a month when the reality of our fast disappearing summer season comes back to us with earlier sunsets, gardens empting out, and Lilly pads choking out the shallows of the lake. Our bright star on those August days can still be very warm but its jacket time in the evenings and foggy mornings leave the grass damp and your shoes dripping with dew.
There are other subtle signals that we all experience in late August in our everyday lives’. For the young people it’s a signal that school will soon be back in session. For us old people, it’s the end of a summer that went so fast we scarce remember most of it. One more August used up and just history in our dwindling supply-- ouch. The county fairgrounds are quiet again and the farmers are oiling up the combines. For the creatures of the forest, the weather signals to them, that a time is coming soon to start changing colors, find a winter den and grow new coats.
When you live on a lake, fall becomes even more obvious. The beaches that were full of bathers in June are now barely being used. After Labor Day the docks and lifts start coming into shore and boats and toys get put away. It’s quiet again, no wave runners or speedboats, just a few fishermen trying their luck. For many the fall colors are worth seeking out, while hiking on a warm Indian summer day. As for me, my favorite color of the year, has always been green. My favorite precipitation is soft rain, not snow and my favorite temperature is something you don’t need a jacket for. Ann Murray sang in her song the snowbird, “So little snowbird take me with you when you go. To that land of gentle breezes where the peaceful waters flow.”
It’s no secret that we live for our summers in Crosslake. That what is just a sleepy little hamlet in the troughs of winter now comes alive with the receding ice. That somewhere in the hearts of all of the residents lays the hope for another summer on the chain. Cabins-- and what is way beyond being called a cabin-- come alive once more. The cobwebs are knocked down, the dust is swept away. Reed’s and Ace Hardware’s parking lots are filled again and the supper clubs rock the night away. Car doors slam and familiar faces walk across the lawn for a hug. You have to wait your turn at the gas station and the churches fill back up on Sunday morning.
Back to Ann and the Snowbird. Beneath this snowy mantle cold and clean, the unborn grass lies waiting for its coat to turn to green. The snowbird sings the song he always sings and speaks to me of flowers that will bloom again in spring. That’s where my hopes lie. That as soon as my winter hiatus is over I will turn my anxious face into the northern lights and come home to where my real roots are. I will sit on my deck and wait for the cries of the loons, not the Snowbirds. They are signaling another season in paradise where dreams are made into reality.
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