They Will Come
So, September. It’s here. Days may be shorter but the golden light on a day like this one looks liquefied, as though an immense pitcher has been tipped overhead. Yes, ferns crisp on forest floors and perennials collapse in our gardens, but the maples hint at their incipient orange and apple trees thump windfall at roadside and in meadow. Once again, morning traffic is slowed by yellow school buses chugging up and down Route 15 but not by another dawdling minivan or RV with out- of-state plates.
We’ve kissed August good-bye. But most of us have also waved to the last of our visitors and houseguests, all of whom, let’s face it, in some summers, can feel like an onslaught. As one island friend once solemnly declared, “Get a house in Maine and they will come.”
Like warriors, possibly battle weary (how many times did I warn her not to wear flip-flops on the slippery rocks?) or shell-shocked (bad enough he arrived without his wife, but did he have to confess he’s having an affair with someone at work and wanted to bring her instead?), we retreat behind our closed doors. Within the ramparts, with the moat-bridges drawn, we tinker in the garden (how did I manage to miss the blossoming of a favorite rose and when did the deer consume all my phlox?) or cook a meal for just two without factoring in nut allergies, dairy intolerance, or the dietary restrictions of Atkins, paleo and vegan. Perhaps we venture to the store with our suddenly shorter shopping lists – no need to ask: “Do you have harissa?” “Where can I find the lemon curd?” Or we sit down at our desk and stare at our computer screen, our neglected draft (why did I think introducing Aunt Sally in this chapter was a good idea?) or the book we left open – how long ago now?
We need time to resume our routines, re-absorb the quiet of our rooms. We also need to be reminded: Let’s keep this secret to ourselves – that September is really the best month, the gold-and-blue month, its days glorious, nights crisp, bugs gone, hiking trails peaceful, and farmer’s markets still abundant as berries and tomatoes are bumped aside by apples and squash. Extending the season is meant for us alone.
Oh, it’s not that we don’t love them. Mostly, we have a great time with our houseguests. They are, after all, our friends. And our family members (even if they arrive with way more baggage than what they haul from their cars). Most of these folks have been invited – unlike the couple winding their way down the peninsula and across the bridge then snaking over the causeway and knowing exactly where on 15 to turn and who, on the doorstep, claims, “We were in the neighborhood.” And oh did we mention, our packed bags are in the car? I mean, really, how subtle is: “ We thought you might have a good recommendation on where we might stay?”
Houseguests can be helpful. Some are good cooks or like to load the dishwasher after meals. They remember where the recycling bin is and offer to take out the garbage. Often they profess talents you don’t possess. “No, no need to call the plumber. I’ve got this.” Two hours later, the plumber is on his way. Some are better at directing. As you drop to your hands and knees to sandwich in an hour of weeding after weeks of neglect, a guest appears on the deck, coffee mug in hand and points with a half-eaten croissant, “There, you missed a big one.” And why expect anything else? These are folks who back wherever they come from surely work too hard. They are, after all, on vacation – some of whom, as you hear your washing machine rev up for another load, also seem averse to carrying back with them so much as a dirty sock.
Sometimes, too, they point us toward the errors of our ways. “Really, you drink out of the tap?” “How long have you had this car anyway?” “Yes, but do you have any natural insect repellent?” Or we’re led to believe that we’ve been deprived. “Oh look, I’ve brought you a pound of coffee. Good coffee.” A grandson hopefully asks: “Do you have 4G ?” An old friend increduously exclaims: “You have 4G??”
“You’re not expected to be the perfect host,” my husband Bob tells me Really? So when a guest looks up from the local paper after reading there’d been a lecture the night before, and, appearing crestfallen, accuses, “You didn’t tell me about this,” is she suggesting that even a less-than-perfect host would’ve known a woman from the Heartland who’s never been to Maine has an interest in lobster shell disease? Bob also advises, “You know, you really don’t need to apologize for the weather.” Okay, I get this one. I cannot control the weather. But try telling that to a pair of friends who after the second day of fog and rain look at me with their expectant faces for some suggestion that doesn’t involve more galleries or gifts shops or another round of Scrabble. Regardless the weather, however, we are – are we not? – expected to know where everything is and exactly how to get there and what is open when, as if we were a bespoke tour guide. Or maybe a chauffeur – “Gee, I sure hope we can find it” – in spite of handing over a stack of highlighted maps. Bless those who, waving us off, declare, “Not to worry. We’ll find it.”
They come. They bear gifts – wine, scented candles, embroidered tea towels. What turns out to be a third copy of a book we’ve already read or another jar of fancy mustard. We dig deep to find creative expression in our thanks – “Oh, how clever!” – for whatever else has been emblazoned with moose, lobster, or lighthouse. And who am I to ever turn away good coffee?
They come. They sign the guest book, effusive in their thanks and their use of exclamation points. They send a thank you note and post photos on Facebook. They email their next summer’s schedule and the dates in which they might be able to squeeze us in.
They come. And we love that they do. Really, we do.
But in September? Ssh, that’s our little secret.