I'm watching the rain blow sideways outside my living room window. A few of Tater's tastefully tacky lawn ornaments have danced across the yard in the last few minutes. I'm hoping that's all this wind delivers to us.
While it rains outside like the proverbial cow peeing on the proverbial flat rock, I'm stuck inside listening to Meat complain about the heat and the humidity. The only thing louder than his whining is the rafter rattling thunder.
We may not speak for you, but Meat and I are ready for August to end. It is a suffocating sociopath of a month. A 31 day bully, miserable, prickly and loud. If you haven't changed shirts twice already today, you probably are still in bed. You'd stay there if the sheets weren't sticking to you.
"You know SJ, the world goes crazy in August. All the heat and the humidity and the storms cause everybody to flip out. I'm feeling pretty edgy myself."
"You're edgy because Tater won't be back all month."
You probably didn't know this. I didn't. Meat hasn't been too forthcoming about the love of his life. You might remember his original lie when this story began.
I know now that Tater wasn't just a Bernie campaign worker, she's in the Bernie inner circle. She's known Mr. and Mrs. Sanders since her Vermont commune days which, as I understand, was sometime last century. Before the internet.
Anyway, Jane Sanders hired her to decorate the new summer house. Tater specializes in tie-dye and barnwood, the kind of purely baby boomer design choices the Sanders' revel in. The ironic design school.
"Yeah, I could probably do without the tie-dyed curtains, but you can't beat that barnwood and brass in the family room."
"Are you into interior decorating now Meat?"
"Har-de-har. Very funny Groucho."
These dog days of summer are brutal. The deluge has passed, the sun has broken through and steam is already rising on the hardtop. The moisture in the air clings as soon as you step outside. Instead of cooling, the storm kicked up a steam bath.
Meat has moved from heat and humidity to something I care nothing about. He's not in a good mood and neither am I really. I'm staring out my front door as he rages on about whatever it is. It doesn't matter. It's August and it feels like the ice cream is melting.
Looking out to the green trees on the hills surrounding Elkhorn, I search for some sign of summer giving way to fall, when the breezes bring cooling afternoons. But no matter how hard I look, there's not a single sign of the change bound to come. It's just that time of year.
"Hey, it's quit raining. Come on, I'll help you pick up your flying yard art. I gotta get out of here and do something."
Meat, grumbling, follows me out the door. His lawn ornaments are scattered around Victor and Florine's yard. There's an empty PBR twelve pack box hanging in their paw paw tree. He grabs it and shakes it around.
"This had a couple cans left in it. Sheez...I hate August."