Covid Journal, Day 122: The Drone of July

76, humid and cloudy this morning. It looked like rain, but the sun soon came out. Watering continues.

 I am not a fan of summer, and most especially, not a fan of July. The only things I like in this hot, humid month are the birthdays of family and friends, and fresh veggies from the garden. I know that sounds whiny, but it's the truth--this is my least favorite month of the year.

But I persevere, and try to find what good there is to be found in this mid-year month. Of course, the best thing is my youngest son, born on the 30th of the month. And usually, tomatoes, although this year it looks like it will be August before we have our first ripe one. Thank you, cold wet spring, for this disappointment and delay!

Still, there are good things. The days are a little shorter and cool off in the evenings earlier. There are fireflies, and at dusk the hoot-owl in the woods. There is the fragrance of herbs--lavender, lemon balm, rosemary, dill all scent the air if brushed by my hand. There is bee balm too with its spicy fragrance, marigolds and the headiness of lilies.

The grass grows slower so we are not cutting as much, and even though there are no tomatoes yet, there is a bounty of cucumbers, squashes, kale, and beans. We can eat outside in the cool mornings, and the porch stays comfortable all day with the ceiling fan on.

Some poets have also noted the blessings of July in their writings: the English poet John Clare had this to say:

July
Loud is the summer's busy song
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size
Grow teasing with their melodies,
Till noon burns with its blistering breath
Around, and day lies still as death.


And Stephen Patrick, another English poet, had his own view of the month:

Sleepy July in Skipwith Common

Across the open common land
shines glowing purple floral blooms
The bumble bee can hardly stand,
as flowers' scent is rising fumes

And lies there in the summer shade
a resting deer quite joyfuly
for in this beauteous sunlit glade
all's observed by sent'nel tree

This tall oak stands by sparkling stream,
whose water splashes grass and rock,
reflecting in its azure gleam,
the woodland plant and dandy clock

While goes beneath the cloudless sky,
amidst a warm and dreamy breeze,
a squirrel idling, passing by,
past numerous, careless, floating seeds.

And yet one more Brit, Ruth Pitter, says this about July in her poem, "The Diehards":

We go in withering July
To ply the hard incessant hoe;
Panting beneath the brazen sky
We sweat and grumble, but we go.

Yes, Pitter has it right. "We sweat and grumble, but we go".


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.