He slowly and meticulously placed the boards in the street as the evening stretched forth her hand to greet and conjoin the less stagnant and ever so marginally cooler temperature of nightfall. The finished product of the lad's labor was an incline of old boards doing its best to imitate a ramp.
My wife and I watched the how from our porch a block away from where the budding Evil Knievel was doing his last check of the ramp before mounting the small bike. Satisfied that all was in order, the daredevil in waiting began to peddle at full speed as he skillfully maneuvered the bike onto the ramp, lifted the wheels, and soared all two feet over the boards onto Hotel Street. We politely applauded as he safely alighted from his bike. After putting the boards up, he hopped onto his bike and swiftly circled the block in what was no doubt victory laps in his fantasy feat of danger. I turned to my wife and said," he must really be bored. I know I sure was in August when I was growing up Wallace."
Yes, August in Wallace is somewhat between Dante's Inferno and Irving's Sleepy Hollow. The best of summer is over, the banners of the 4th are already stored away for next year, Little League is usually over unless an all-star team advances in the tournaments, football has not quite started, and school awaits the future leaders of our country.
We wait in August as the thermometers hit their peak, sweat drips from our foreheads, lethargy demands that we take a nap, and we wait and wait for this long, meaningless month to turn into the glory of the Autumn. Then, when September 1 rolls in, we look at each other in the public square, in the market, and in the Post Office and say, "Wow, summer sure went fast. Where did it go?"
After all, we as humans are if nothing else, the kings and queens of fickle.