Harvest
The fields grow ripe with amber waves of grain. An unseasonably blessed cool spell in the midst of July entices my mind with autumnal thoughts. And retail shelves, having cleared the hurdle of Independence Day, now begin to bedeck themselves with Halloween. August welcomes Lammastide, the “Loaf-Mass,” when the firstfruits of the wheat reaping would be ground into flour and baked into bread, then gathered at the altar for a blessing to be brought back home. The Dog Days aren’t yet done, but the harvest has begun. And to my heart, at least, that makes all the difference. I am a melancholic creature, a devotee of fall. Blame it on my mother, who made every holiday magical, none more so than the Hallowtide and Christmas. Our whole house would transform to match the turning of the seasons, the colors and scents and spices and sounds—when ghosts and witches, elves and saints, populated my imagination, wonders given form and flesh. I suppose I’ve always been a little mystic. I suppose I’ve al...