Sam Venable  

Special Contributor

I was enjoying the intoxicating splendor of a cool August evening, expounding upon the glories of autumn and fairly tingling with anticipation, when a Good Friend of Yankee Extraction (GFOYE) attempted to burst my bubble.

“This,” he sniffed, “is not autumn.”

“Huh?” I replied.

“Autumn is wearing a red plaid wool shirt,” GFOYE harrumphed. “It is eating a crisp apple that splashes all over your face when you take the first bite.”

“Of course it is,” I said, “but autumn has a lot in common with Christmas, your birthday and a two-week vacation at the beach.”

“How so?” he wanted to know.

“Half the fun is getting there.”

Having never lived Up Yonder, I cannot speak with authority about the process of summer’s surrender to autumn. For all I know, it happens like a clap of thunder. Everybody is sitting around in short pants, playing checkers or snoozing peacefully. And then—ka-blooey!—the leaves immediately turn from green to red.

“Aye-yup,” someone says, checking his pocket watch, “4:17, right on schedule.”

If that’s the way it works in Yankee country, what a pity. Here in the privileged Southland, we rehearse and revere this annual passage. We call it August.

Please understand that August is still officially summer. It can be hotter than the very hinges of hell, more humid than a Brazilian rain forest. Anyone of Southern breeding knows better than to buy a snow shovel this time of year.

Ah, but August prepares us for the good stuff! Northerly breezes in the afternoon and midnight “freezes” of 55 degrees have a greater impact on the body and soul than a dose of salts and a week-long tent revival.

August is laid-back, no-hassle, easy-going.

It is a time to cease fretting about fancy summer parties where guests sit in deck chairs and melt into pools of perspiration.

It is a time to abandon diets with a clear conscience because bulky sweaters, perfect for waistline camouflage, are soon to be shaken from storage.

It is a time to think great thoughts of social-cultural life in the South: from football games and county fairs to hay rides and hunting seasons.

It is a time to feast—gluttonously, if at all possible—on homegrown tomatoes, homegrown corn, homegrown okra and homegrown cantaloupes. The miserable wretches who settle for store-bought produce this time of year either have no garden or no gardening friends. Whatever the case, they are to be earnestly prayed over for they are in dire need of salvation.

Critics of August sometimes accuse this regal month of flirting. They claim it tempts us with fallish temperatures and fallish football fantasies, then dope-slaps us back to reality with record afternoon highs and dull preseason games.

Baloney. These critics—who are aliens, possibly illegal ones from Up Yonder—don’t understand this is all part of the process. Seasonal courtship, as it were. August’s duty is to put us in the mood.

There will be time for enjoying genuine autumn when genuine autumn arrives. There will be ample opportunities for GFOYE’s plaid shirt and crisp apples.

But for now, give me the music of katydids and jarflies at sunset. Give me the beauty of purple morning-glories, all a-drip with dew, climbing up the trellis at dawn. Give me my sleepy, trusty, end of summer friend. Give me August.

Sam Venable is an author, stand-up comedian, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at mahv@outlook.com.