August features two birthdays. My dad was born August 10, and my sister Melody was born August 24, but forty years later.
The end of summer always makes me want to weep myself into a deep, quiet, moss-colored river and pull willow branches over my head. My back yard, lush and seductive a few weeks ago, is still thick with leaves and twining tendrils, but its green has faded from tender emerald satin to dusty olive velvet. Most blooms have long ago withered or transmuted to fruit. Yesterday two yellow sycamore leaves floated in our little pool.
The high temperature here yesterday was 108 degrees Fahrenheit. The high today was 88. Autumn hasn’t arrived; we’ve just had a cold snap. The high for tomorrow is predicted to be about 105, but by Friday we should be down to 95, which is seasonable.
School has started. Alex, an eleventh-grader at the local public school, had expected a year-long course in A/V production, but now finds that she has been moved into one semester of psychology followed by one semester of sociology. Psychology teaches that all unhappy or destructive thoughts and acts are someone else’s fault. Hi, Mom! Sociology disagrees, saying that all foolish thoughts and acts are caused by society at large. Imagine that, getting grades and curriculum points for two semesters spent learning how to excuse everything by blaming others. Alex’s plan is to smile and nod and regurgitate lectures onto test papers and try not to engage, so as not to antagonize the teacher. Her reading list for English class is: The Crucible, Their Eyes were Watching God, Of Mice and Men, and The Great Gatsby. Looks like a depressing school year for her. Three of those books were assigned when I was a student. No wonder American kids hate to read. Of Mice and Men is actually a good book, but is it good for 16-year-olds? Especially is it good when added to the rest of the dreariness?
Confession: I tried to read Their Eyes were Watching God several years ago, on the recommendation of my sister Gayle, but quickly wanted to hurl it into the dirt. It is written in dialect, and if there’s one thing that I truly despise, it is having to sound out entire books. Eek! Writers who participate in this particular kind of reader-torture should be punished early and often. Note: I did not throw the book out the window, but gently handed it back to Gayle and entertained myself by cleaning the bathroom.
The 8th grader, Ivy, and the 3rd grader, Sarah, are homeschooled. This morning Ivy helped Sarah to understand the concept of place values in arithmetic. Briefly I questioned the utility of having an 8 year old writing out: three hundred thousand + eighty thousand + nine thousand + seven hundred + forty + one. That’s a big number! It’s not as much as she owes on the new national debt game, but it’s a big number, just the same. And according to the schedule, Ivy has to finish her entire year of math by April, so she is stuck with six math classes per week. This is hard to justify, as Ivy and Alex have both scored in the mid-nineties in all the subjects of the statewide tests. Whatever silliness they pack onto it, homeschooling is still superior to public schools these days.
By seven o’clock, the highschooler is home from school and flag practice, and my husband is home from work. Dinner has been eaten and the dishwasher is chugging away. Now the dining room table is host to four lovely girls. All three sisters dive into their homework, and their mother, once again seated at the head of the table, guards and guides them till their work is done.
Another leaf just drifted past my window.
