If you ask me
why I love it first I would close my eyes and breathe. There is the smell of
sweat and animals, dry sawdust, damp hay. And the fine smell of grease, and of
foods I donít like to eat but like the smell of.
Next, with my eyes still closed, I would pause my breath and listen. The sound
that children make is a universal one, the same anywhere in the world. You can
hear it at playgrounds or bus stops or wherever two small children are paired
and free. You know the sound. You can even remember making it.
Then Iíd open my eyes and see people. There are all sizes and kinds and there is
something, I think itís joy. And even the irritation or exhaustion or thirst has
joy in it, because it is the irritation or exhaustion that is the late arriving
guest of satisfaction. Because these are summer days at the end of the summer.
And these are foods you never eat because they are too sweet or decadent but
here you are allowed to, because theyíre temporary, flavors of summer ending.
And the anticipation of winter, and the fact that it is remembered or imagined
as always being harder than it really is, and summer being gone for longer than
it really is, this affords you some gluttony. So you feast on summer right
before it turns to grief, trying to hold on to it or trying to take it with you,
burying it in your stomach and planting it in your veins. Summer is never over,
only dormant for awhile.