It Must Be August

There is rain tapping on the metal porch roof, a fire in the wood stove,  and salmon in the smokehouse. The tomatoes are ripe in the greenhouse and we ate our own brocolli with sockeye and a garden salad last night. One child is back at college, the rest are weary of  the fast pace of their summer jobs. Bears are walking down the streets all night long, Grandma Joanne is here, the baby has a runny nose and the deckhands are getting massages after shaking thousands of pounds of humpies out of the net all week. But the surest sign of all that August is here are the nine jars of raspberry jam cooling on the counter. There were almost ten, but since there wasn't quite enough to fill the last jar we just went ahead and made some toast to spread it on. No wonder Frances only ate bread and jam. (Surely you have read Bread and Jam for Frances?)


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