It wasn't such a bad summer

late august evening

It is an evening in August. 

The orchestra of cicadas is all I hear, louder even than the boys in the yard jousting with sticks shed by the tree during last night's storm. They sound like some tiny 80s synth band hidden somewhere up high in the trees. The sound reminds me of shade trees and sitting near my grandparents' propane tank, watching the last Ozark summer sunset before leaving the next morning to go north to home, school. 

It's an evening fit for late September, not mid-August. The breeze is warm with only the slightest hint of chill. It's getting close to that time of year where I can literally taste the season's change in the air. 

It is the quietest, most unassuming evening I've had all summer. 

The boys officially start their lessons next week. They've learned a lot about civics these past several months. 

I tried to think of a non-dorky way to say thank you for the kind emails you've sent, but I can't, so just, thank you. That was so very kind.

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Dana asks: "Thanksgiving Traditions: Yours or Your Mother's?"