When I awakened to the thermometer trumpeting sixty-six degrees, plus observed no moisture dripping down my windows, I enthusiastically threw cushions onto our patio rockers. To sip that first “al fresco” coffee of this blistering summer was a pleasure too long delayed.
Clean, barely perceptible air, like velvet on my skin, enticed me to discard all thoughts of productivity. Today, I resolved to shelve my ever-present to-do list; to ignore all gnarly subjects, so prone to provoke an already frazzled mind.
What is needed personally, and what is done, is so often at odds.
The appearance of a temperate, sun-saturated day, in a climate cluttered with clouds, nudged me in the better direction.
My mother kept a weather record, and in some ways I do the same. With apps and internet, I check forecasts near and far, plotting golf games and garden tours— to maximize moments of optimal outdoor comfort.
At our lake in upstate New York, we came to learn that “August is always iffy.”
Substantiated by that month’s calendar page, years of hand-drawn clouds, some with rain, told the tale from its hook on the pantry door. This particular July in the Midwest feels like the August of my youth. Not a Bottle Day in sight. Until today.
Yes, I wish I could stuff this day in a bottle, as my mother would often proclaim. There, it would stay, safe for personal use. When the dark and distressing periods had piled one upon another, until there was no bearing the weight of such bad weather one second more, out from the bottle I could pull perfection!
Sweet relief from our climate torment — the conditions that breed low tolerance, sour moods, and for some, that dangerous foul humor that has led to plenty of spoiled date nights and highway drives.
Many Bottle Days live in my memory. I decide to enjoy this one.
In real time.
Just for today. (c)
