We are fortunate daughters and sons. John Fogerty sang, I ain’t no fortunate son.’ Just now I passed a house that exploded a couple of days ago. A person was killed, and kindling was left. Police tape for a wide circle. Devastation. We drop a lot of bombs on others. It is different when you see it up close. War is not something to play rock and roll music to. War is hell!

White Heron is back. He knows school is starting and needs to get his supplies. White Heron is a Brooks Pond enthusiast. He knows not of war; he understands fish. Fireworks make him nervous. The first Friday in August. The Custodians have prepared the floors. All is shining. They look like mirrors. You can comb your hair in their reflection. It is a good Friday for a trip to Ponds Hollow. Monday will be the hot classroom. Window fans are moving hot air. The teacher has a smile maskoon that she purchased for Halloween. She was not ready for school. The teacher went on a Caribbean cruise and wanted to stay on an island. Mr. B quit his gas pumping job today. He needed the money in the summer. No one gets rich teaching kids.

The usual cliques formed again as if summer had not happened. Bullies were there, a bit subdued, until the teacher tested the waters. Chet had on his ballcap. Mrs K told him to take off his hat in the house, a universal theme in the early 60s.  Debbie’s uncle was in Vietnam as well as Bill B’s cousin.

Chet watched the body count on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite each evening as he ate Oscar Mayer Weiners. Morley Safer and Ed Bradley crouched low as gunfire sang over their heads in the rice paddy. A little Vietnamese girl ran down the road naked, burned by Agent Orange.  It was an award-winning photo. Children wept alongside their mothers as their thatch roofs were set ablaze. General Westmorland said all we needed was more troops to be the victors in Vietnam. President Johnson sent more and more and more. Victory was just around the corner. Communism had to be defeated no matter how many lives were lost. A just cause, we were told nightly. Walter Cronkite said the war was unwinnable.

‘New Boss same as the Old Boss,’ the poor man said. ‘The poor fight and die; the rich get the glory for something that they caused,’ the poor man proclaimed. ‘Iran says they may agree to open the Strait of Hormuz if we agree to their terms. ThetStrait was open until we started bombing; no regime change, no magical thinking,’ the Poor Man observed.

The Fog of War blinds many eyes. The children cry. Good people die. We trusted a lie.

‘I love swimming,’ Billy B said. ‘I could swim every day and twice on Sunday,’ Billy B danced. ‘School starts Monday, but next week will be easy; teachers will have workshops, and we will get out early,’ Billy B splashed. ‘Watch me as I float in the deep water,’ Billy B winked. ‘I sure hope we do not have to go to Vietnam, as it is a fight without purpose,’ Billy B said. ‘It is a big ask to require a person to lay down their life for a President’s ego,’ Billy B noted.

The Golden Days are coming. Days of wine and roses. Peak performance is no longer necessary. Deadlines are blurred. Erasers are used. A time of spiced apples. Woodsmoke in the air. Mylo playing with Flat Santa. Songs of winter wonderings. Time to look and truly see. See with your heart. Hear with your soul. Live in the temporal and understand the spiritual. Where did I go? I made a little sailboat out of paper, put on a paper hat, and sailed away into the sunset. The water was calm before it was choppy. Do not worry, mates, I have the wheel. The wheel was bigger than me. It was hard to turn. It took two men and a little boy. I was the little boy.

Evening thoughts,’ the Old Man said as he laughed. ‘Home is in your heart,’ the Old Man noted. ‘The greatest adventures lay dead ahead,’ the Old Man explained. ‘We live in the land of whisperings and wanderings,’ the Old Man continued. We look for answers to life’s persistent questions from those who do not have our interest at heart,’ the Old Man mused. ‘Those who would treat us not as they want to be treated,’ the Old Man smiled. ‘Vagabonds and louts, crooks and criminals, wolves in sheep’s clothing,’ the Old Man proclaimed. ‘Having eyes they do not see and ears that do not hear, hearts that are wicked with the imprudence of power from the emperor,’ the Old Man assured with caution. ‘They cluck and cluck as the ax comes down on the poor of the land, neither caring nor seeing anything but their own reflection,’ the Old Man whispered.

‘It is good to be the king,’ the ruler said. ‘Whatever idea enters my head is golden and shall become the law of the land,’ K said. ‘I have many ideas, often throughout the night,’ K said on his Truth Machine. ‘I am capable of anything, and the people know it. I can and do cut off heads at my whim and pleasure,’ K said.

It is good to write in the cool of the evening. The fishing vessels are coming to shore. The catch has been good. The Preacher was aboard. ‘Cast your nets on the other side,’ the Preacher said. ‘Let us eat and drink, talk of the future and the adventures we soon will face,’ the Preacher said.

A cool, cloudy, rainy Thursday in August. The Old Man’s kind of day. The rain will not hurt the rhubarb. A reminder that fall is near. Peaceful and serene. A day to ponder the mysteries of life. We are mammals with souls that seek the spiritual. An interesting, complex creation. The Old Man feels at home with the animals of the Woods. Mama Turkey was taking the kids for a walk this morning. They were exercising their new beginning in a world of wonder. Their little heads darted from side to side, taking it all in. Mama said to beware of Thanksgiving, to which they produced a blank stare and a laugh. The Woods was a place of peace, a sense of place made for them. So it is for us but ofttimes forgotten.

Earth seems big but is small. We are a bit like the bar on the television show Cheers, where everybody knows your name. Fall reminds us of community. When one of us suffers, we all grieve. When one of us is happy, we all cheer! A human as an island does not work very well. We need each other like we need air. All of us have a purpose.

Me and my shadow. ‘Not a soul to tell our troubles to.’ Shadows follow us; we get a glimpse of them in the mirror. Shadows of loss and relationships. Shadows of second-guessing. Shadows of doubt.

Life is lived forward, not backward. Our compass is set. Choose the good; eschew the bad. Autumn is almost here. Hayrides and headless horsemen, Ichabod Crane. Autumn leaves and crisp nights. Good Ghosts surround us. Ghosts who mean us well and not ill.

New Orleans French Quarter is on the horizon. A spirit of joy and festivity. The Jazz Band plays at the Hotel Montelone while the old man’s family enjoys a drink at the Carousel Bar. Deep thoughts of purpose, presence and place. We are here a moment. What a unique experience!

The lovely black woman sang of love and loss. She sang of suffering and joy on the corner in the French Quarter. Angels stood by her side. Light pierced darkness.

The Old Man awakened from his afternoon nap. His dream seemed real. Was he dreaming now or then? Fall would sort it out.

The Pond is placid. Blue Heron is resting. Mylo is exploring the mystery of the Writing Porch. A Cardinal flies by. There is a mower in the distance. The Big White Cat is making his evening rounds. Something is coming. Coming soon. We lose the plot; we are wrapped in smoke, fog, indecision. We need to move but are paralised by doubt. Tomorrow all will be revealed, we say. Tomorrow will soon be today.

‘Frankenstein is coming to the Orpheum Friday night,’ Chet said with glee. ‘It is a Halloween Kickoff before Halloween,’ Chet continued. ‘It is said that during his movie performance, he can be found in dark corners of the Theatre,’ Chet whispered. ‘He can be smelled before seen, as he loves cigars, ‘Cigar good,’ Chet laughed. ‘He wears a size sixteen shoe and leaves a big footprint,’ Chet said. ‘It will be fun to see the movie and smell the ‘Cigar Good’ smoke Friday evening,’ Chet laughed. ‘School starts Monday. I hope if Frank is there we can talk him into spending the weekend with us and attending the first day of school on Monday,’ Chet winked and did a little dance.

‘I swear I smell cherry tobacco,’ Jane said. ‘The smoke is hanging in the air in the back of the theatre, but no one is there,’ Jane continued. ‘I did hear a deep voice say, ‘Smoke Good,’ Jane noted. ‘Lou said someone purchased some cherry tobacco and left a coin that he did not recognize the person had on a Pandemic Mask,’ Jane explained.

‘Sit here, we will smoke awhile, friend,’ Frankenstein said. ‘Do you play cards?’ F asked. I love to play cards around Halloween,’ Frankenstein continued. ‘I also enjoy a Pumpkin Latte,’ F laughed so hard the row of theatre seats shook. ‘I would be pleased to accompany you to school on Monday, Jane. It will give the kids a thrill, I think,’ Frankenstein winked. ‘Do you have any naughty teachers I could bring the Wolfman along for a special scare?’ Frankenstein promised. ‘Wolfie is well thought of until the Wolf Comes Out,’ F chuckled. ‘He is a kind fellow, a lover of woods, a keeper of sheep,’ F looked with bemusement.

‘Chet, you must take your hat off and hang it in the cloak room,’ Mrs B said.

‘Can I come out yet?’ Frankenstein asked as he hid among the jackets with his size 16 shoes poking out. ‘Wolfie had to go to the restroom; he will be right back,’ F said.

‘Good morning, students. I am Principal Dave Acula, but my friends call me D. We’re going to have a fun time in school this year. Frankenstein and Wolfie come on out and meet the rosy-cheeked children,’ the principal said with a sharp-toothed grin.

Former President Regan told Mikhail Gorbachev, ‘Trust but verify. So it goes with leadership claims today. Blind Trust is usually a prescription for disaster. We want to believe. If a leader makes a statement that we believe is true, we accept it at face value. We dot every I and cross every T, but leave more important things to chance. Cult devotees follow the leader without question. We crave a good story. A story that scratches us where we itch. Our social circles mirror our internal theories. When things go wrong, as they oftentimes will we have a Strawman to blame. Our failures are someone else’s fault. The deck was stacked against us. We are not part of the Club.

The leader says he alone can fix it. He certainly is confident in his ability. Perhaps he is the one we have been waiting for. No leader before him has ever gotten back to us. We have never risen to the top of the list. This President talks nonstop, and it is said that regular people can reach him on his cell phone. He says some distasteful things but he is accessible.

‘Pastor says I should speak to him before purchasing a new car,’ Chet noted. ‘He does not want us to take a vacation, saying that the money is needed for the church,’ Chet continued. ‘He drives a Lincoln Continental and recently returned with his wife from Hawaii, Chet observed. ‘First there are tithes of 10% and then special offerings that are 10% or more. I am having trouble paying my bills,’ Chet said somberly. ‘He preaches to me in his sermons that are thinly veiled and obvious who he is talking about,’ Chet said quietly. ‘Pastor notes that if we do not do what he says, we will get sick and fail financially,’ Chet said quizzically.

‘I am the Chosen One,’ the President said. ‘Follow me, and you will get tired of winning,’ the President continued. ‘Affordability is a myth,’ the President proclaimed. ‘I am not concerned about the price of bacon or eggs or milk; I am consumed by the building of the White House Ballroom,’ the President danced and sang. ‘I have come down from my throne to help you common people, and there may be one less doll for Christmas to facilitate my goals of world domination and Ballrooms,’ the President noted with a laugh. ‘If you go against me, I will destroy you and your kids to the fifth generation,’ the President’s eyes glowing with anger.

Great Blue Heron is back. He has been on vacation. He has returned with some lovely photos. Billy Blue took his wife and kids to Santa Claus Land. The Herons had their picture taken with Santa Claus. They had a scary ride on the rollercoaster. Billy Jr. almost upchucked.

Summer vacation is fun. A time to think about Christmas before it is Christmas. School is beginning. Joy came in the morning; now it is evening. The Woods were alive with workmen today. Cutting stumps. They had the serious look of men on a mission from God. Mrs. Beaver did not care for the noise nor the mess. Mr. Beaver insisted he must get to work on the dam at the creek before the fall rains begin.

Red-shouldered Hawk flew over Brooks Pond. A quiet evening, he thought. ‘It will be getting colder soon,’ RS told Holly Hawk. ‘We must stop by to visit with the Old Man,’ RS noted. ‘I never understood a word he said, but I helped him drink his wine; he had some mighty fine wine,’ RS recalled. ‘

So here we are together again. The evening is coming on. Peace and a sense of place are our home. All is vanity, the Preacher said. We seek eternal goals. Soft summer nights. Time for reflection. Time to heal. Time to think. Eschewing false religion. We are seekers of the true. Manipulators would have our hearts, our minds, our souls for their own devices.

We are waiting for Godot. A smooth speaker tells us he is Godot. We know he is not. We understand by his actions, not his words. While he gets richer and we become poorer, we know the deception. The self-anointed say Follow me, I am called. Peer review is needed. Cults are easy to get into and hard to get out of.

The Bullfrog Quartet is running the scales. The Sun is golden in the west. A hint of fall is in the air. The Tufted Titmouse is singing for his supper. Tomorrow is another day; some of us will be manipulated, some will manipulate in the name of faith. Some will manipulate in the name of greed. Some will manipulate from psychotic delusion. A preacher on every corner; where is truth?

The lone hummingbird flies as the evening softens. The Night Song chorus is preparing a concert book. August says I am but three days old; I have a lot of life left. This August will be special; I will solve the world’s problems, and people will forget about the fantastic fall. ‘After all, I am part of the Big 3, you know,’ August says with gusto. ‘June, July, August are meteorological summer,’ August winked. ‘I have not had a week to produce my master plan for summer year-round and Christmas on the Beach,’ August laughed. ‘A change is coming, welcomed by some and not by others,’ Annie August noted. ‘I have been held back too long; it is my time to shine and show,’ August danced.

‘Hi, Ms August, Sally September said. ‘I will need a place to hang my sweater and light jacket next month,’ Sally S continued. ‘I think I will sleep in the woods where the leaves make such a wonderful multicolored blanket,’ Sally S mused. ‘Do you have hot chocolate in the cupboard?’ Sally S asked with a wink. ‘I will start by saying you can feel fall in the air the third week of August; after that, they will think it is already September,’ Sally S grinned. ‘Folks have romantic ideas about me: ambiance, mood, cool walks in the woods, crackling fires in the fireplaces…,’ Sally S said dreamily.

‘Carved pumpkins, eating pumpkin pie, pumpkin lattes, Pumpkin Cologne, pumpkin sweaters and neckties,’ October said with a laugh. ‘My fan club will not recall your names once I arrive,’ Oscar October said with a saunter. ‘I am the King of Fall, the big kahuna focus of the season,’ Oscar O proclaimed. ‘Ghost stories and bobbing for apples, hayrides, Ichabod Crane, the Headless Horseman,’ Oscar O noted with a wink and a nod. ‘I bring the children Halloween decorations like Christmas for Halloween costumes and candy and old monster movies,’ Oscar O laughed with a mouth like a Jack-O-Lantern. ‘It is warm enough to enjoy the outside with a sweater or a jacket and a good hat in my month,’ Oscar O explained. ‘The leaves are majestic in their color; people drive to Maine to see them,’ Oscar O continued. ‘We think of and plan for the unparalleled greats in my month, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and then I am gone,’ Oscar October said softly.

‘I think November has the prize for Pumpkin Pie,’ Ned November offered. ‘Pilgrims and Native Americans learning how to smoke and plant corn,’ Ned offered. ‘Turkey is our Bird,’ Ned N said with the confidence of someone who had known a lot of turkeys.  ‘Thankfulness, you know, is compelling,’ Ned N grinned. ‘I love coat sweater jacket weather,’ Ned N offered. ‘There is Nip in the air and a little Nip in the coffee,’ Ned N laughed. ‘We think about the good the year has brought us and forget the bad,’ Ned N continued. ‘Home sense of place reflection around the hearth family,’ Ned November offered with a tear in his eye.

‘I hope you did not forget Good Old Santa Claus,’ Santa said. ‘This Christmas will be special, but then again, aren’t they all,’ Santa said. ‘Now come the long nights, the short days and days of understanding,’ Santa noted. ‘We must share with all of the human family a lesson for life,’ Santa noted. ‘Warm yellow mittens and sleigh bells, crisp apple strudel and kittens’ whiskers, or something like that the song says,’ Santa laughed. ‘Ralphie said, ‘Oh Boy that is mine,’ and so do we all,’ Santa observed. ‘This Christmas let us give what we would like to receive,’ Santa observed.

Pastor Meg reminded us this morning of Jacob and the Angels Wresling Match. Jacob received a dislocated hip and a name change. We wrestle a bit with God. His ways are not always our ways. We want the flower-strewn, soft grassy path, and he has a more rugged path for us with stones and boulders and highwaymen and women. Lukewarm is how we like our water temperature. Cherry-picking faith is a popular pastime.

Our sails are set for the rest of 2026. We have made our plans. Plans change. That is the lodestar of life. After your wrestling match, while you nurse your hurting hip, see how your soul feels.

The Sun is setting fast. Sunday has come and gone. Night birds are singing. The quiet of the dark. Many people work at night. I did for much of my career. Night is good for thinking, musing, meditating on what has happened and what is coming.

Look around at the Night People. They have wrestled with God. They ask God the hard questions. Questions that politicians and preachers can not answer. ‘Why is there war?’ Night Person asked. ‘Why do children get cancer?’ NP continued. ‘Why is there homelessness?’ NP asked. ‘When will you save us?’ Night Person asked softly.

‘Listen to me, and I will make you a success,’ the President said. ‘I know more than anyone on most subjects,’ P continued. ‘You are going to win so much that you will get tired of winning,’ P proclaimed.

‘Jesus wants you to be rich,’ the Preacher said. ‘Give until it hurts and you will become rich like me,’ P offered with a laugh. ‘God talks to me, then I tell you what he said,’ P explained. ‘God and I have a direct phone line that he does not give to most folks,’ P said confidently. ‘Do you want to be rich and in good health and live in a McMansion on the hill overlooking the town below?’ P asked. ‘Give all you have to do without eating less, no vacations to build the Kingdom of God,’ the Preacher said.

The Night People watched. The night People prayed. The Night People Wrestled with God.

It feels like fall. The evening light over the trees is etheral. Next month is September. The future is here. Long waits bring pleasant results. Success is incremental.

So life has changed. It changes subtly while we sleep. What we understood is now un-understandable. The President becomes richer; we become poorer. Poor people proclaim in the streets that wrong is right and right is wrong. Justice is for sale, or has it always been? We were for sale from time to time.

The Great Crested Flycatcher is steadily at work. He chirps and watches. The Bullfrog Quartet is shopping for sweaters at L.L. Bean. It is getting dark quicker each evening. Summer watches from the bench under the tree. ‘I still have some life in me,’ Summer says. ‘Do not rush me,’ Summer continues. ‘There are yet more swim days at Pounds Hollow, fireflies to catch, hot dogs to eat,’ Summer pleads with a soft voice. ‘ I have toys to play with, songs to sing, campfires to sit around and tell ghost stories and eat s’mores,’ Summer laughs.

‘Some of those things are my forte,’ Autumn replies. ‘I do the campfires and ghost stories,’ Autumn continues. ‘I am buying supplies as we speak, preparing for a spectacular fall,’ Autumn rejoiced with a cup of hot apple cider and an apple fritter.

The big white cat is waiting. He likes the cool breeze.  Big White Cat heard the tiny laughter of mice. As they scamper and poop and scamper some more. ‘Mice are simple creatures,’ White Cat said with a lick of his paw and a purr. ‘Fall will come soon now, and you will be coming into my house where Grandma and my grandson and I live,’ White Cat commented. ‘Of course there is Spot the Dog,’ White Cat demurred. ‘He is a bit silly on a good day,’ White Cat added with a smug grin. ‘I love to look up as if something is above my head and cause Spot to look up and engage in a fit of barking,’ White Cat laughed. ‘Spot is a simple sort with a good heart,’ White Cat observed.

Mr. Sun was setting. ‘It is going to be a cool night on Brooks Pond,’ Bullfrog said. ‘We shall sing of change,’ Bullfrog noted. ‘A new wind is blowing; I feel it in my bones. Things are going to be different,’ Mr. Bullfrog said with a happy face.

The Old Man was in the Woods. The rain began to fall. A pouring fall rain early. Thunder pealed. The rain said This is how I end July. The Old Man saw the rain and considered it. What a nice respite from the heat of summer. Things change often for the better. Jonathon is writing poems. Poems are good for the soul. Souls need rain. We tend to dryness. We act in the practical now. Harsh words stick in our ears. Imaginations lodge in our hearts. Rain washes them away.

We people of the Earth, want to be better. We see better modeled. Yet in the desert it is hard to enact. Words influence our feelings. Dry words become our world. Hope lay in the puddle along the side of the road. At times it has a mini rainbow in it.

Our lives are prose written in a turgid textbook. We hunger for poetry. Lifting the mundane banality. Seeking to soar with the Northern Cardinal. A glimpse of the big rainbow.

‘The rain has brought welcome relief from the heat,’ Chet said. ‘I have been preparing for school to begin we went to P.N. Hirsch this morning for school clothes,’ Chet continued. ‘I got a backpack for my books,’ Chet noted. ‘It is cool with Peter Max drawings on it. I will be hip this school year,’ Chet laughed. ‘Life is looking up,’ Chet proclaimed!

Calm and quiet is the order of the day. No violence, hate, or marginalization for us. ‘We shall be the Rain People folks who love peace and cathartic contemplation,’ Jane laughed. ‘Bullies disrupt my sense of place,’ Jane continued. ‘Live and let live; do not put your mean thought in my head,’ Jane explained. ‘Art, nature photos, and writing are my sanctuary,’ Jane smiled. ‘Poems speak to my soul, Jane mused. ‘School is beginning soon; peace is what we all want,’ Jane said with tears in her eyes. ‘The Bible says that we will beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks; nothing will hurt or destroy in all of my holy mountain,’ Jane quoted. ‘Let that be now before it is too late,’ Jane whispered.