by Katie McCollow

It’s August. August is the Sunday night of months, don’t you think? Do you know anyone who doesn’t experience a sense of sadness on Sunday nights? I’ve yet to meet a person of my generation who doesn’t equate Sunday nights from childhood with that ticking 60 Minutes clock, reminding them that the fun was almost over.

I never slept well on Sunday nights. I never slept well, period as a kid (see: The Exorcist) but Sunday nights were particularly brutal. Once 60 Minutes and dinner were over, I had to face the reality that I had done zero work on my science project and had no idea where my uniform was, much less whether it was clean.

(Editor’s Note: If you’re our age, do you also remember having to sit through 60 Minutes on CBS and then begging your parents to turn it to NBC so you could watch The Wonderful World of Disney because only a heathen would watch that on the backup black-and-white television??? I mean, what family had TWO color TV sets in 1973?)

The uniform scramble was a constant theme in our house; nine kids, Catholic school, Brownies, sports teams and various and sundry after school jobs? That’s a lot of uniforms, kids, and everyone’s were always lost.

I wore a jumper to school one time that was actually no longer the actual uniform, but a many -years old, outdated version that I had found on the floor of my sister’s closet. It caused a bit of a scandal at school, and my saintly mother had to get involved (this was back when parents didn’t get involved in every little thing) and explain to the school that I wasn’t, technically, out of uniform, and as a matter of fact, the vintage incarnation of such that I was wearing was far more attractive than the hideous, Communist-issue looking current model , therefore I was not to be sanctioned for it. The fact that it was also much too small for me was not brought up. I didn’t wear it again, but it least it bought me an extra day to locate the proper version.

My mom was (still is!) a badass like that. She once got called by the priest because she had not been attending confirmation classes for one of us, I don’t remember which one but it wasn’t the oldest, and she’d been down this road before. The priest tried to strong-arm her by saying the child in question wouldn’t be confirmed unless she showed up (in the evening, no less!) for the classes.

She explained that she had a houseful of little ones in her care and was continuing to create more of them and raise them according to the church, that she had no intention of attending the same damn* classes she’d already been to with several kids previous to learn about a sacrament she most likely knew more about than the priest and quite frankly, signed off on when she had us all baptized, so here’s a plan, Padre, why don’t you stick to your job and she’d stick to hers? P.S., Joey or Billy or whomever it was would be there on confirmation day, and would come home confirmed, capiche? And that was the end of that.

About a month ago my sister told us how once she was frantically looking for her Brownie uniform and finally found it in a heap on the floor of the “kid” bathroom. (The kid bathroom was usually several layers deep in rank towels, articles of clothing, comic books, what have you. We were supposed to be responsible for its cleanliness, and let’s just say we didn’t always do the best job. ) There was some sort of grass stain or something on one shoulder, but it was Brownie day so she wore it to school anyway. (It was OK to deviate from the black-watch plaid for Brownies, which I think was one of the only reasons my sisters and I joined—that and the snacks, since they were usually something sugary and store-bought, another thing our mom didn’t tolerate.)

Long story short, it wasn’t a grass stain (Editor’s Note: Ewwww!). Some lazy sibling had used it to, um, well, it was in the bathroom, kids, and this disgusting fact was pointed out loudly and cruelly to my sister by the other school kids.

Our bedroom (the one I shared with the above sister and my younger one) was located directly above the family TV room, so I would lie awake at night on Sundays, comforted by the Charlie-Brown-esque “mwaa mwaaa mwaaa sounds of my parents watching TV—if they were still awake, it couldn’t be that late, right? But then things would go quiet, and one by one I’d hear footsteps, doors closing as the rest of the house went to bed, the steady breathing of my slumbering roommates…and I would still be awake, with nothing to think about but my undone homework, missing uniform and Satan.

So yeah, August is the Sunday night of months. The last month of summer, the most fun time of the year. Then it’s back to school, back to long pants, back to combing my hair at least once a day, back to knowing what day it is, for cryin’ out loud…But let’s glass-half-full it, shall we?

Five Great Things About August 

It’s Still Summer

You still have a month to do all those things you swore you were going to this summer, way back in May! Go horseback riding, visit Yellowstone, call your grandma, go paddle boarding—you’ve been watching other people do it all summer and every time you do, you say to yourself, “That looks fun;” admit it. You still have time to read one of those books they write about in the Sunday paper, eat lunch at a food truck, wear linen pants or treat yourself to a suntan. DO IT. Studies show we don’t get enough vitamin D. If you want me to cite those studies, you’re outta luck– do you really think I’m going to waste the last precious moments of summer looking up a bunch of boring studies just so you’ll go outside?

State Fairs 

Two kinds of people in this world: those who like state fairs, and those who don’t. I am in the “don’t” column. I know, why would I list them as a great thing about August when I’m in the “don’t” column? Here’s why: I love that they exist, I just don’t like attending them. I would be very sad if next year all state fairs were canceled (Editor’s Note: So would the Beach Boys), but ask me if I want to go to one and you will get a loud and insistent “NO!”

I hate the food, I hate the crowds, I hate the filth and the smells and the weird, creepy midway and the incredible expense for the pleasure of parking six miles away so I can spend a hot summer day rubbing up against my sweaty, hairy neighbors. Every year, my local paper runs a story about what bizarre new concoction will be available to eat at this year’s fair-things like chocolate dipped walleye pops or pig ear ice cream.

But I love that other people love it. I love reading about those gross-sounding foods in the paper, and I love the heartwarming stories about the 4H kids who spend all year fattening up their hogs for the chance to win a ribbon. LOVE IT. I just don’t want to go. Chalk this up as another time when I know I’m in the wrong, but damned if there’s anything I can do about it.

The Month After August is September

Which means fall, and fall is the best time of the year. Did I say summer was? Technically I said summer was the most fun. Fall is the best. Except for school starting; that part stinks. I’ve never been one of those parents who looked forward to their kids being gone all day, and this September is even worse—one of mine is leaving the nest. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.

The Sweet Corn and Tomatoes are Ready

I know we live in a world where both those things are available all year round, but this is when they’re really supposed to be available and boy, can you taste the difference. It makes me drool just thinking about it. The other night I bought five fat, warm tomatoes from the farm stand down the road and made a Caprese salad that made everyone moan. My daughter’s garden, which I am looking at as I write this, is almost ready to start picking. Yayyyyyy.

It’s Only Five Months Until the Holiday Season

And that is truly the best time of the year. I mean seriously, what’s better? Did I say fall? Pffft. The holidays are the total best!! We’ll be back to eating hard pink tomatoes and frozen corn, but there will be Christmas cookies and fudge and the sun will go down at 4:30 (which is the coziest thing ever) and being outside in the dark, snowy landscape, looking at all the twinkling houselights, feels like being inside a jewelry box, so who cares?

*My mother would never say ‘damn’ to a priest.

(Editor’s Note: Katie’s momentary lapse of reason, and impending emotional collapse as her oldest heads off to college, caused her to briefly forget that it’s just one month until college football season; we’re sure she regrets the error)