Ellen Williams

SUMMER GOES TO SLEEP

Summer savors its final days, stretching out languidly, like a drowsy cat on the living room bay window, searching for the last rays of a sunny day, yawning and circling three times before accepting the warmest corner of the window and not the least bit embarrassed of its indolent mood brimming over with laziness.

Both know how to rumble; summer in a low pitched distant grumble of an approaching storm, while the cat will awaken when it pleases and will protest with a warning guttural purr-r-r should you even think about touching him before the natural cessation of his slumber.

At times, this past summer misbehaved like a spoiled child; day after day it smoldered and pouted, stubbornly becoming hotter and hotter, never giving in, as if daring the frantic parent to resort to stronger measures. It also coaxed the elderly to find secret cool places, in the hopes that their hideaways would go undetected by the fickle season, so eager, at times, to stomp its foot with storms of thunder followed by sweet rain and pastel rainbows arched in the sky.

Before hiding from long winter days, summer glances over its shoulder, wondering if the little kids with their painted metal pails and shovels had discovered the cooling lakes meant for splashing and had filled their pails with sand; beat on it, turned it over, pounded the bottom and did it all over again and again and again. Summer wonders: "did they do all that? Did they play long and hard enough?"

The season, occasionally described as sultry, ponders further: "were there enough picnics? Were there picnics by the lake, the neighbor's backyard, the park by the playground and just about anyplace where you could grill a hot dog, red or white? Did Aunt Sue bring enough canned beans? Oh, enough," thought summer, "I'll have to leave that up to Aunt Sue."

The hottest season of them all, summer may coyly withhold cool breezes for the sake of promoting closeness and friendliness. For instance, without invitation, it would settle in upon the neighborhood after the kids were "put down" for the night. With no air conditioning, the kids in the upstairs rooms of a two story house kicked off the blankets and tried to cool off while falling asleep to the incessant cicada or locusts' gossip and goings on of night time shenanigans. The relentless heat motivated the ladies to locate their colorful paper fans won at a state fair, share them with others and sit on the front stoop and sweep the air briskly across their hot moist faces, all the while increasing their chatter and story telling. The heat lightning flickered in the distance reflecting upon their shiny glistening cheeks. Most passerbys were sure to say: "It's the humidity, you know, the humidity and not the heat...."

Did summer nights provide that tempting background that sighs of passion and love as found in a small art movie theater showing one of those black and white foreign films with lots of trickling beads of sweat and even if it was in French, you knew they were saying: "ah, adore me, my cherie, I'm yours." Blossoming love is almost synonymous with summer for it seems to understand that romance sails on the scent of honeysuckle drifting into a lonely room on a late night breeze, teasing one's imagination and causing the flimsy moon drenched curtains at the window to flutter and whisper words heard only in private declarations of love. The honeysuckle perfume may linger, teasing and coaxing the mind to believe in make believe, when suddenly and all too soon, like a false admirer, it responds to a new entreaty to the stars above overheard from the meadows below, and with promises of enticing rendezvous, the intoxicating aroma leaves the senses spinning as it joins the sounds of night and replaces young love's tears with the stark light of daybreak.

Summer loves to compare itself with other seasons. With a haughty, disdainful, even arrogant shrug, it discredits the pale yellow of spring's attempt to color the landscape as insipid, timid and without inspiration. "Why," summer boasts, "why can't it just step forward and BLOOM, instead of offering such an apologetic display?" For comparison, summer boasts: "just look at my troops of tall sunflowers lined up solidly with petals of gold surrounding a sun-bronzed face, guarding the fields from undesirable visitors. Where else would you see such a display, such majesty?"

There is no end to the artistry and talents of summer. Look for the golden fields of marigolds; marigolds of deep yellow, marigolds of bright orange, each flower full of thick petals pressed gently together and when grown en mass create a blanket of glittering jewels beneath a tranquil sky. It is hard to turn away, but summer beckons us on.

Summer invites you to rest awhile on a bench in a secluded garden meant for quiet and repose that has been filled with white and yellow daisies, pink poppies and lavender sweet peas, all nearby, while at your feet little pansy faces smile. They smile in repose, they smile in the quiet and they smile again while you take in a deep breath allowing the fusion of images and scents to enter your being. If, at this point, you close your eyes and still see the pansies smiling, you have acquired a beginning step in relaxation. Good for you. Stay for awhile, breathe deeply and enjoy the flowers with your eyes closed.

Our last garden stop is to view an artist's study in delicacy, a weaver's fashion of intricate laces, and the mentalist's picture of imagination, otherwise known as a flower named Queen Ann's Lace. To view it from afar, across a wide field, is to behold a sea of stars scattered across a late evening sky. Summer means fields and fields of Queen Ann's Lace, row upon row with all different heights. To view them up close is to see layers of white flowers comprised of tiny white flowers, swaying gracefully in a gentle wind. The spectacular relative of a carrot is summer's tour de force to the waning season.

Having sat by summer's side and observed it's manners, rituals, presents and punishments, I have not yet understood its mysteries; its beauty, nor its sorrows. Perhaps we're not meant to. Perhaps if I were to ask summer how it sees us; we might gain a clearer vision of its perspective.

In response to my inquires I will need to expand upon my imagination and suppose that summer had this to say: "I've shown and displayed my majestic empire and offered dreams and fantasies that were yours for the taking. For you I have whispered songs of poetry to nurture young love as well as the love of many years to come. For you, I have spread before you the scents of the orient and moons that have seen Arabian nights.

I am not just an accumulation of a few months clumped together; I am a world unto myself. I am spread out before you in all my regal sights and sounds, just waiting for you to notice and become intimate with my pulse, my rhythms, my role in the universe, my eternal existence.

Now, is the time for me to rest and allow the autumn leaves their cloaks of splendor and the snows of tomorrow a sure path to your door."

Summer goes to sleep.

Ellen Williams was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease five years ago. During the past year, she began to keep a journal expressing her experience. This led to other subjects and formats, such as poems, short stories and essays. Willims is a staff writer for a local paper and her work appears on a regular basis. Several poems and an essay have since appeared in local papers. Previously, she had earned a Master's degree, practiced as a counselor and had not seriously explored creative writing. Today, Williams is exuberant about her new interest and the joy it has given to her when sharing her works with her family and friends. She is eagerly anticipating the publication of her first book, entitled Let's Go Around Again, in September 2009.