Indian Summer

It had been a long night. Though I had tucked myself in at 9:30 with every intention of sleeping for a complete 8 1/2 hours, at midnight I was still awake, book and string cheese in hand, reading (much to my awakened husband's chagrin) in bed. It was not that my current reading choice was so captivating that I simply could not put it down, rather just a case of insomnia. With the help of some Benadryl, I finally dozed off a bit after twelve, only to be jolted out of bed by Thomas screaming. Running into his room and flipping on his lights, I discovered my little one covered in blood from a nasty nose bleed. And as if to solidify why I cannot ever even consider being a nurse, I became quite woozy from the scarlet splashes of blood staining his blanket. Jared was called in to take care of applying tissue to the nose.

Needless to say, I skipped the 6:30 AM alarm, opting to sleep until the children awakened. Aware that the forecast for the day was predicting rain, I lingered in bed despite the bouncing and hollering taking place in the twins' room, dreading the day. Imagine how pleasantly surprised I was when I opened our room darkening shades to encounter the sun shining down upon the golden leaves carpeting our lawn instead of ominous clouds saturated with rain. Thank God. A bit of relief from the early chill predominating our region. A taste of the Indian Summer, which I had begun to doubt would ever materialize. Goodbye winter coats and long sleeved shirts, if only for the day.

We opted for a trip to the Shady Groves Pumpkin Patch, a locally run business, where we have been purchasing pumpkins for years. "I don't know if the boys should be allowed to play with the bunnies," my co-parent and eldest son advised. "They may pull their ears or try to step on them." I assured Thomas that there would indeed be parental supervision. Unfortunately, it turned out the farm was closed for the day. Tears of disappointment and muffled sobs emitted from the back of the van while I mentally concocted plan number two: a return to Stone's apple orchard five minutes beyond. The fields were closed for apple picking, but the boys, myself, and Grandpa and Grandma Swanson enjoyed ourselves anyway. After all, there were llamas to feed apples, a baby lamb to coo at, miniature donkeys to avoid (because a cardboard sign hung on the fence indicated they might bite), and a one eared goat to marvel at. Besides, there were free apples in the barn, pears to be purchased, walnut shells to be collected, and one lunch of pancakes and bacon to relish.

Indian Summer

Emily Dickinson

These are the days when birds come back,

A very few, a bird or two,

To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on

The old, old sophistries of June,-

A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,

Almost thy plausibility

Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,

And softly through the altered air

Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,

Oh, last communion in the haze,

Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,

Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!