It’s late August, and the kids are getting ready for school again, slipping back into the routine after a summer spent as wild, untamed farm kids. The house, as usual, reached a peak of chaos, but a couple of rainy days had everyone inside, straightening up. Now, with sports starting, the high school stadium, framed by low grey morning clouds draped across the sage hills, looks like a scene from an old Gus Van Sant film.
The garden edges are overrun with weeds, taller than me, glistening with spider webs, casting long shadows in the golden evening light filtering through the Douglas firs and our neighbor’s redwoods. Most apples have fallen from my favorite trees, with a few left to gather for fall baking.
Down in the valley, the morning mist lingers longer, thick and slow to lift, while the young buck with his velvet antlers wanders through the orchard, unnoticed by our snoozing dogs. Summer’s slipped by too fast, like spring and winter before it, and the kids are growing up. Each year, the realization that this parenting gig is just a fleeting collection of moments settles in a bit deeper. I used to wish I could slow it all down, but now I just try to soak up every detail, knowing that one day, the house will be quieter, and the garden a little less wild.
