We’ve reached that seasonal stage of summer’s maturity—its coming-of-age adulthood.
The heat and humidity have had their annual go at us. And my best guess is that the worst is over.
Sure, it’s always possible a bit more of both still remain in the weather pipeline—and are scheduled to be delivered before autumn officially rolls around.
And yes, a check of the weather records does reveal that southwest Ohio occasionally experiences a heat wave this time of year.
But this is not historically typical. And especially not coming on the heels of so many unusually wet and rainy weeks.
I’m inclined to think this August’s—and this summer’s—opportunity to sear, sweat, swelter, and scorch us into melting puddles of quivering relentless-heat misery has likely passed. There’s just not enough time—too few remaining days for an extended onslaught.
The times are, indeed, a-changin’. Just spend a morning or afternoon outside and you’ll discover an array of seasonal sights that point to summer’s maturity, along with various portents of things to come.
Meadows and old fields are now decidedly gaudy with patches of purple ironweed amid clouds of Queen Anne’s lace, lavender thistles, pink burdock, and the first bright goldenrods.
Joe-Pye weed nods from the damper corners and—if you know where to look—you can find delicate gentians, orange butterfly weed, scarlet cardinal flowers, and that ancient symbol of the spurned lover, wild columbine.
Prairies are ablaze with black-eyed Susans, spiderwort, vervain, yellow coneflowers, and a few of their now mostly faded purple kin. Ox-eye, blazing star, sunflowers, daisies, and the early asters are also blooming. The head-high stands of big bluestem are beginning to turn the winy color of old burgundy.
Nevertheless, August’s latter days are still overall green and serene—lazy-paced and drowsy-quiet. There’s a feeling of life and growth, though now slowed from their earlier rush as they find their way along summer’s final stretch.
Yet amidst the mild solemnity of fulfillment and stasis, there’s also a nebulous feeling of ongoing journey and future promise, days ahead—change yet to come.
The morning chorus of sprightly birdsong has dwindled considerably from just a few weeks ago. Cicadas still whir during the day, while crickets chirp at night, along with the first of the katydids—but there’s not much sound from the frog chorus except for the senatorial old bulls, who still harrumph deep-voiced exhortations into the moonlight.
Some nights, when the skies are obscured by clouds as thick as clotted cream, the enshrouding darkness becomes palpable. Such conditions seem to stir the interlocutory owls to hoot of ancient mysteries from the impenetrable gloom of riverbank timber.
It’s another sure and shivery sign of August’s—and the summer season’s—certain, ongoing passage. A presaging reminder of time’s continuum.
I recently spent part of a morning ambling along a woodland path. In a dimly-lit, cloistered hollow, I chanced upon a cluster of diminutive Indian pipes.
If you’ve never heard of Indian pipes, or are at least unfamiliar with them on a first-hand basis, I’m not surprised. These pale, odd-looking plants, which are actually wildflowers, are the ghosts of late summer’s woods. Though rarely encountered, they’re never forgotten.
Indian pipe is a member of a minuscule genus that consists of only three or four species worldwide. Only Indian pipe and pinesap are found in North America. The remaining species come from Europe, Britain, and Japan.
Whenever I encounter this uncommon flower, I’m always struck by its unusual appearance. The small “pipes” are starkly pale, sometimes white or bluish-white—and infrequently pinkish, translucent, and looking eerily like a waxy carving of mortal flesh.
Their lack of color comes about because Indian pipes are saprophytic plants. “Saprophyte” comes from the Greek and means “rotting plant.”
Because Indian pipes subsist chiefly on either the decaying roots of other plants or only on an adjacent soil fungus (botanists are still debating the issue, though they’re leaning towards the latter) the Indian pipe plant obtains all the nutrients it needs without the usual plant-world requirements of leaves and chlorophyll.
Thus, the stark appearance and strange lack of color. Incidentally, should you ever encounter them during your own rambles, you can forget picking a few for later display—the pipes turn ugly black and ooze a disturbing gelatinous serum when bruised or cut.
Finding them made me think of their namesake inspiration— humans rather than plants. Native Americans, or First Nation people…Indians.
Indians knew August’s full lunar phase as the Green Corn Moon, which is what they called roasting or “green” sweet corn. The arrival of ripening sweet corn prompted one of the biggest celebratory feasts of the year.
We still feast on sweet corn every August. And I suggest that sometime during your next sweet corn meal, amid the smoky roasters, puddles of butter, and shakers of salt, it would be only right to thank your lucky stars for those Indigenous people who shared this exquisite bounty that so deliciously graces our tables.
Sweet corn—green corn—is one of late-summer finest gifts. But like the month and season, it won’t be around forever.
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
