The Unrest of Late July

The world is depressed here. The economy. And the hard cracked clay earth where nothing grows. The scratching of mice in walls, and squirrels break off oak twigs, scurrying up and down the big tree, this way and that, noisily dragging leaves. A quiet feeling of unrest is in the air these days.

The fair is gone. It brought color and motion and drew devouring crowds. We all say, every August, that it wasn't as good as last year. Something is missing.

Remember that really great ride? The one that blared music, and went ninety miles an hour, and if you sat on the outside of the car you'd get smashed, but I always forgot and sat on the outside anyway? You were so drunk you puked from the heights of the Loopo Plane as fountains of coins, glinting in the sunlight, sprinkled to the ground from our pockets. I fell in love with the rubber man, and the kid who owned the double ferris wheel gave you free rides. Remember? It was so much better then.

We carried Dolly's bag of caramel corn home, dutiful children. She loved the bingo tent and we walked through the 4H building, the automobile building, the floral building, under the grandstand, to the free tent where local talent played for an audience of farmers wearing bib overalls, leaning back in folding chairs. The Geritol Gang. Sherry's House of Dance. The Magic Show!

Tomorrow is August. Summer tilts and the school year scratches at my consciousness. I keep those thoughts at bay, but the sunlight in the yard, filtering through the morning glory vines is softly diffused. I can't take my eyes off it, me in my polarized amber sunglasses which transform the faded landscape into a vivid and rich wonderland, like photo editing software for reality. I head outside once again, banging the screen door behind me.