August

I can think of three books with "August" in their titles and none of them have much to do with the glories of the month. August by Judith Rossner isn't about August at all (also, not a very good book), but about the absence of August in the lives of New York therapists and patients. Barbara Tuchman wrote The Guns of August, a very good book but about inglorious World War I. One of the world's best books is Faulkner's Light in August, but deep summer in Mississippi does not compare well to high summer in Maine. Google added a fourth book, Snow in August, by Pete Hamill, which I haven't read, about post-WWII New York, whose title says it all. Where are the books about this incredible time in Maine? It's so wonderful that a book would be trite. Irony and conflict work much better in the literary world.

At least the name of our capital gives a nod in the right direction.

And it has been an incredible month - day after day of clear blue days and cool quiet nights. This morning the fog embraced Owls Head for a while, gradually retreating into the bay, but never quite leaving the islands, giving those of us on the safe mainland the best of both worlds. No war here, no hot broken city streets, no dusty roads - just a time for inner contemplation and outer radiance. When all those therapists close up shop in August, perhaps they should write their patients a prescription for Maine air and water, mist and sun, corn and tomatoes and blackberries, to get them through the month and maybe even cure a few.