The spud trucks are rolling again. Our ranch is in the middle of potato country so we drive defensively this time of year. We reverently bow to the potato producers in southeast Idaho, where Spud Harvest deserves top ranking.
Last night at sunset I let the dogs loose for their evening run. It was so lovely and mild - and no mosquitoes – that I stayed out until after dark. The dogs cavorted in the cool. A massive, brightly-lit spud digger lumbered by the house and into the darkness, ready to start a new field tomorrow.
And then this morning I heard meadowlarks! Thinking this a springtime sound, I asked my 92-yr-old father about it. He said they sing in the spring and again in the fall. Maybe it’s just that most of the loudmouths have left town and so we notice them again, or maybe they’re calling the ranks together for winter.
Dad and I remembered a poem my grandma wrote that begins with, “I woke to find September at my door.” She also mentions meadowlarks:
His song was not the mating song of spring,
He had a softer, more contented note;
He spoke to me of every finished thing,
Yet joy of life just billowed from his throat.
Such an apt description of September. Not unlike a woman in her fifties, September has left behind the fickleness of spring and the bruising heat of summer. We’ve both matured. We’ve settled and feel a contentment borne of hard-fought wins. We speak our minds with clarity. Our thickened leaves lined with gold, we march on unafraid of the future.
September is not shy. And like her, we are secure in our beauty, confident in our timeline of experience which only increases our capacity to love, and to embrace this full-up stage of life.