It has always bothered me that September and October in Lafayette, CA are the hottest months of the year.  Summer in my town can get blazing hot like the towns a little more inland but can just as easily be cool and even foggy like San Francisco – we’re kind of in the middle.  It never fails, though, the kids would have to go back to school just as the temperatures were hitting the nineties in September.  I felt it was unfair that they had to go back to school just in time for “summer” to arrive.  I know this sounds crazy, but I really hated for school to start as much as they did.   Lazy mornings turned to regimented torture.  I wasn’t an organized Mom, having given up as I did, and mornings were more chaotic than any other time of the day, the emphasis on “time” being what it was on school mornings.  Time to get up, time to get dressed, time to eat breakfast, time for the carpool to arrive or get in the car because Megan is waiting for us to pick her up.  Time to quit playin’ around and about that same time, time for Mom to lose her temper.  I can still see Andy flying down the hill in his stocking feet to our little basketball court where the carpool ride would be waiting, his shoes flopping in one hand, his open backpack over his shoulder, barely hanging on to his lunch in his other hand. 

We are in a bit of a heat spell right now – even 94F in San Francisco today! Unheard of…  I am up late tonight, no sense in trying to sleep yet – we don’t have air conditioning for the above mentioned reasons.  We are the first to feel the effect of the fog when it finally rolls in after baking for a few days, so we make do with fans.   Another phenomena that hits in September/October are the crickets.  In and of themselves they make it difficult to sleep.  It truly is unbelievable how loud they are, and tonight they are serenading me through the open windows, letting me know that winter is right around the corner again. 

Our “crickets” are not like the big black ones in Chicago that would sit right out in the open on the basement floor, unable to hide their fat selves.  They are the laciest little buggers you ever saw, but their wings are loud enough to qualify for the New York Philharmonic.  One time we had one inside the house, apparently confused as to why he or she couldn’t attract a mate with all that chattering.  Just about drove me insane.  As soon as we’d turn off the lights and go to bed, it would start.  As usual, Al would drift off and I’d be the one stalking through the house, trying to pinpoint it’s location.   I knew it was somewhere in the kitchen/living room area – but where?  I’d tip toe down the hall, it would stop.  I would stop. It would start.  I would tip toe again for a few steps, it would stop.  This went on for quite some days until I became determined that I would not sleep – since I wasn’t sleeping anyway – until I found it.  I finally did, underneath the lip of the bar between the kitchen and dining room.  

He was beautiful.  I grabbed a glass and a piece of stiff paper, captured him and let him out of the house.  He was an honorable and formidable opponent and deserved nothing less than freedom and perhaps fulfill his destiny to make more little noisemakers.  Generations later they are out there, still makin’ that crazy sound.  I love the rhythm of it – I’m sure there must be some reproductive purpose for it all – it’s fascinating to really concentrate on the sound and try to hear the different harmonies and beats.

Oops, almost fell asleep listening  – guess it’s time to sign off – night night, night night, night night.