It’s no longer possible to deny the obvious. The ash tree outside my window is yellowing, and the bike path is strewn with hazards — golf-ball size walnuts, acorns and other tree detritus that, if you hit wrong, will send you ass over teakettle, only if you’re like me, you land on your teeth, not your teakettle.
Also, the Olympics are over. Thank God for that — I didn’t know how much longer I could summon empathy for Belarussian trampoline acrobats.
On the other hand, who knew synchronized swimming could be so wonderful? They even take their bows in sychronization. It’s a hoot. And while I really hate people who say things like this, watching the Argentine basketball team at the medal ceremony reminded me of being in Buenos Aires last year. I have never seen so many great-looking men in one place in my life, and you saw just a sample on the medal stand. Woo. Those aquiline noses! Those fierce chins! So masculine.
OK, then. Just thought of one more sign summer is slipping away: The peaches I bought at the market this weekend were, when they finally ripened, sort of mealy. That’s the real end of the season, right there — you get eight weeks of heaven, because the peach is the queen of all fruits, and then it’s all apple pie and woolly sweaters. Sigh.
But summer will be with us for a while, and while I’m not looking forward to its exit, it’s been a lovely one — cool and breezy and pleasant. Al–Qaeda may yet blow us up, but we had a nice final season.
Bloggage:
The last word on the string-heavy national anthem, at the Olympics.
Me, I’ll be back later.
Bob said on August 31, 2004 at 12:25 am
Keillor asks, “O Mark Twain, where art thou at this hour?” and then goes on, I think, to answer his own question. His essay seems inspired by Sam Clemen’s vitriolic eloquence. I think he may be a reincarnation of Mark Twain.
In “A Pen Warmed Up in Hell”, a collection of Mark Twain’s essays, there’s one on patriotism. Read it, and see if the flavor of Keillor’s piece doesn’t seem similar.
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