Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer

They call them the dog days of summer, these days of July and August, usually the hottest and most humid of the year (for those of us in the northern hemisphere). But I can already feel fall. The air has grown slightly less moist, hinting at autumn’s dry coolness, even when the thermometer doesn’t agree.

I hear it in the sounds of insects—different from early summer bug buzzes and chirps. And I hear the occasional thump when a premature nut hits the ground.

I see it in the trees. Their leaves grow simultaneously darker and paler, and occasional ones waft to the ground. I see it in the flowers, too, whose colors have changed from bright summery hues to the softer mauves, lavenders, and golds of fall.

Yes, we may still officially be in summer’s dog days, but fall is in the air. There’s something slightly wistful about these times when the old begins to fade and the new is just beyond the horizon. We become nostalgic for something not yet gone. While some of us bemoan the loss of barefoot days, summer picnics, tubing down a river, others are perking up at the prospect of football, fall foliage, apple cider, and hayrides.

By the way, do you know where the term ‘dog days of summer’ comes from? I always thought it had to do with the way lethargic dogs laze on country roads or under porches during our annual heat waves. I guess in a roundabout way that’s not far off. In fact, the ancient Romans called the hottest, most humid days of summer ‘dog days’ because they associated them with the star Sirius, the dog star. Our most sultry days coincide, more or less, with the time each year when Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, appears to rise just before the sun.

At this time in my life, the change of seasons brings a question to mind. It looms larger with each cycle—what changes lie in store with the next season? But, whatever is in my own future, my head knows that each season brings its own gifts. My challenge is to embrace them while they are here in all their fullness and, when the time comes, to let them go lightly so I can do the same when the next one rolls around.

 

Family Ties

Last year, I participated in a genealogy challenge on social media called Fifty-two Ancestors in Fifty-Two Weeks. You never know where delving into family history will lead you. You end up learning about people you’d never even heard of. It’s not about attaching yourself to fame and glory, at least not for me. But it does remind me that I’m connected to the history I learned about (and didn’t learn about) in school. It brings history to life. Being conscious of that history is not only interesting, but creates connectivity to others. It can teach important life lessons. And were it not for them—all of them—I wouldn’t be here.

For one weekly genealogy challenge, I wrote about my great-grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth Creech Smith. Somehow, that post popped up on a Creech family page, and next thing I knew I’d been invited to a Creech reunion. Of course, I had to go.

Columbus and Elizabeth Creech Smith

My curiosity about family and family history far outweighed my strong introvert credentials. I’d never met a Creech, probably because my grandmother died four years before I was born. That, and the fact that I was not born and raised in Johnston County, North Carolina, home to many a Creech and the location of the reunion.

I was anxious about being a stranger in the crowd, anxiety that was much alleviated by the Gnome’s presence at my side. (He’s as interested in my family history as I am.) But there was no need to worry. As the newcomer, I wasn’t only welcomed; I was practically rushed by my previously unknown cousins of various degrees.

What a welcoming crowd! Many of us appeared to be from the same generation, all descended from various of Martha Hare and Worley Creech’s nine children. If I’ve got it right, I’m third cousin to most of the kind folks I met that day.

Worley Creech, our common ancestor

Martha Hare Creech, our common ancestor

I gathered a few interesting facts about my ancestry. For one thing, the Creeches are a seriously musical bunch with a long heritage of vocal and instrumental talent. They played and sang for more than an hour, and it was beautiful. So that’s where my dad and his brothers and so many of my cousins got lots of their melodic genes!

My ‘new’ cousin Charles remembered being in the house where Worley (second-great-grandfather, if you’re keeping up) grew up. Worley’s youngest son, Carmel, lived and died in that house. Charles, just a kid at the time, remembered when Carmel’s body was brought back to the house. While the children played outside, the adults gathered around to watch over the body and to sing hymns, accompanied by the pump organ that had belonged to Carmel. The worn-out skeleton of the house still stands, hidden by a mass of pine trees and overgrown weeds. It remains in family hands.

Unfortunately, stroke has also played an outsized role in the Creech family for generations. My great-grandmother was a stroke victim. According to one of my uncles, “Grandma Creech was bed-ridden for as long as I can remember.” And my grandmother, Lula, died as the result of her second stroke. That’s why I never got a chance to know her. Not such a good sign—though stroke has not claimed anyone in my direct line since.

In addition to Charles, I met cousins Vicki (reunion host), Genie, Jody, Brenda, Steve, Sharon, Susan, Katherine, Shirley, Tap, and too many more to keep all the names straight—sorry.

A highlight of the day was being in the presence of the family’s matriarch—my second cousin once removed. But eighty-nine-year-old Sarah and I are much closer than that. She knew my dad! And remembered most of his brothers. She knew my great-grandparents! I could have jumped out of my skin. She remembered my great-grandfather, Columbus (Uncle Lumbus, she called him), from Creech reunions way back. And she told me a story about my great-grandmother, Sarah Elizabeth. It went something like this.

“There was this corner store our family went to. One day, I was in the buggy with Mother and we stopped at the store where Mother bought a bag of candies. Oh, how I wanted some of that candy! When we came out of the store and got back in the buggy, she said, ‘I want to tell you something. We’re going to see this lady who’s sick [that would be Elizabeth—Sarah’s mother was her niece], and this candy is for her. Now, she’s going to offer you a piece, because that’s what people do. But you are not to accept it.’

“And sure enough, that’s just what she did. And even though I really wanted a piece of that candy, I did just what my mother said, because that’s what people did.”

At the age of seventy-three I sat in the presence, held hands with, a woman who had been in the presence of, and probably held hands with, my great-grandmother. How about that!

Sarah fills me in. (Sarah was also  pianist for all the fine singing.)

I wouldn’t take anything for that reunion day.

(If you care about things like family degrees of separation, you can learn more here.)

A Day in the Life

We could have been washing dishes. We could have been cleaning the bathroom. We could have been weeding in the garden or mowing the lawn or taking care of any of the other chores on our frighteningly long to-do list. But we didn’t do any of that.

Instead, we sat for more than an hour watching ‘our’ baby Carolina wrens. Sometimes, we stood—to get as close to the screen door as possible to watch the mesmerizing sight in front of us.

The parents showed up about two months ago, first razing their former home, presumably in anticipation of a major remodel. Sticks and leaves were strewn all over our deck floor. Ultimately, they chose an alternate site—on the opposite end of the deck, but in a similar location. They did well, choosing a crevice so tiny and well-hidden that their babes were almost sure to be safe.

The nest is in the cranny beyond where these two boards intersect. It’s only one and a half inches wide in there. How can a whole family of wrens plus a nest can fit into such a small cavity?

For two months we’ve watched the wrens bringing, first, sticks and grasses and other building material and, next, bits of food for the nester and then the chicks. We’ve listened to Mr. sing his beautifully melodic songs to Mrs. and, later, his babes. He has many songs, and they can be ear-piercing. How can so much sound come out of such a diminutive being? And for two months we’ve been loudly and soundly scolded whenever we dared to venture onto the deck. We know when Mama raccoon is around because she gets the same insistent scolding.

And for the last couple of weeks, we’ve heard the almost unceasing chirps of young wrens begging for their next meal. In the last few days, we’ve noticed a head or two peeking out from their refuge, too eager and curious to stay concealed.

But today—today was different. First one, then a second, and—surprise—a third, slipped out into the open, standing on the wooden beam that supports their home. One ventured even further away from its protected nest. It tested its little wings. It slipped and almost fell, but clawed its way back up. One at a time, the birdlings peered over the edge into what must have seemed an abyss.

One soon-to-be fledgling eyes the horizon while the next investigates the gaping distance to the deck floor and the third lingers at the opening to its nest, ready to dart back in if danger appears.

We were sure this would be the day, the day they would fledge. As many birds as have nested near our home over the years, fledging is an activity I’ve never witnessed, and I didn’t plan to miss it. Not unless they dilly-dallied until we had to leave for an important appointment. I stayed glued to my seat. The Gnome had to go upstairs for a brief shower. “There are four of them!” I cried as another head popped out. “Five! “No, six!” He made it back downstairs in record time.

By the time the last two bashfuls made an appearance, the second bird had joined its sibling on the beam. Their four brothers and sisters, lined up like a chorus of dancers waiting for their cue, weren’t going to miss the big event any more than we were. Perhaps they were gathering courage.

The most adventurous, the first to slip out onto the ledge, finally made its leap of faith. It wasn’t a long flight—just a couple of feet, but it was a huge success, nevertheless.

The wren on the left has flown all the way over (barely down at all) to a cross beam and gives an encouraging look to the one still pondering its options.

Then off flew another, and another, until finally only the most timid little bird was left, alone and surely waffling between the desire to be brave and free and a wish to hold onto the security of home.

Clinging to the beam

Mama brought a last bite of nourishment. That was all it took. The last little bird took the longest flight of all.

We cheered. We hugged. We cried.

We’ve been reading North Carolina writer Leigh Ann Henion’s book, Phenomenal, for the last week. She traveled the globe to explore the world’s greatest natural wonders. It’s a breathtakingly beautiful tale, full of awe and wonder and great truths. I highly recommend it. Yet, today, we experienced our own exhilarating phenomenon. And we never left the living room.

And then there were none.  No more begging, no more scolding, and nearly a year’s wait for the gusty, mellifluous songs heralding that a new generation is on the way.