Christmas is only five months away. I was hoping to be the first to alert you, but Hobby Lobby beat me by a month.
We had not yet marked Flag Day or the first day of summer when the Christmas creep commenced.
While we were breaking out the shorts, merchants were breaking out artificial trees dusted with artificial snow.
While we were searching for our flip flops, Santa was searching for his boots.
While we were firing up the grill, burning burgers and singeing our eyebrows, Santa was firing up the sleigh.
Turns out the most wonderful time of the year is now a full half of the year.
Ho, ho, ho and pa rum pum pum pum.
It’s topping 90 today. The grass is brittle, the hanging ferns are begging for water and rabbits that ravage the garden are knocking at the back door, panting with their little tongues hanging out.
Who wants to light a Christmas spice candle?
How ‘bout giving that winter wonderland snow globe a good shake? Harder. Harder. That’s it! Ooops.
Please excuse my inner Scrooge. I’ve never liked being rushed. I can move fast, talk fast, make chocolate chip cookies fast, throw sheets a kid got sick on in the wash fast, pack a suitcase fast and exit the house fast—but I can’t stand being told to go faster.I’m going to take my time. I’m going to savor the final scorch of summer and the last bark of the dog days of summer.
I’m going to leisurely stroll through the trashed school supply aisles at the store, throw my arms in the air and yell, “Thank you, Lord, those days are behind us!” I’m going to watch the neighbor kids shuffle to the corner bus stop.
I’m going to observe Labor Day by doing no labor whatsoever.
I’m going to watch the maples, birch and oak turn yellow, orange and crimson. I’m going to relish nights that grow chilly and savor the goodness of a heavy sweater. I’m going to drive on back roads at dusk and hope to see deer.
We’re going to rake enormous piles of leaves in the backyard of this old house, then call our grands who live in a new subdivision with tiny trees you can snap in two with your bare hands and tell them the fun is waiting.
I’m going to make a big deal about turning on the heat. We’ll both rail about the cost of utilities and the monopoly of the gas company. Tradition.
We’re going to enjoy apples, pumpkins, squash and endless zucchini and, come November, I’m going to win another wrestling match with a turkey.
I’m going to watch the very last leaf drop and the very first snowflake fall. Then . . . and only then.
Don’t rush me.