“I” is for Indian Summer
Late October and our valley gets its first hard frost. Like somewhat tardy ants in Aesop’s fable these cold nights send us scurrying to complete summer chores. Busily stacking hay bales, finishing fence repairs, harvesting the last peppers, storing winter squash and cleaning the summer gardens while waiting for the long days of winter to creep onto our farm.
Then summer plays its annual trick and elbows winter back for a few weeks of warmth. Like a tense interlude before the next act, a stale impersonator of the vibrancy of summer days, a guest who will not leave a party even as the decorations of fall drop from the trees, this is an Indian Summer.
And then one day winter arrives, the wind kicks up, the last leaves hit the ground and ice is found on the water troughs when we feed in the morning. Summer is now a memory we hold for the future.
