By JEFFERSON WEAVER

It’s here, finally.
Dang it.

I do not like the month of August; indeed, my loathing for this month will be all-encompassing, at least until February, that being the only month for which I have even less regard.

There are, of course, many good things have happened in August – I started work at The News Reporter, for instance, almost exactly a year ago, the same day someone left a freshly-killed, easily-cleaned deer in our front yard. Any day that starts with free meat and a good job is memorable. I proposed to my wife in August, and what was more surprising was that she said yes.

But overall, the month gets a failing grade from me.

People get grumpy and stupid in August; I am often grumpy, but I hope I am not often stupid, at least not so much as the fellow in front of me in traffic the other day.

Obviously a victim of August, he carried on a telephone conversation for more than 20 miles. Well, I drove a little over 20 miles. He drove, gesticulated, danced, and did aerobic exercises for more like 30 miles, considering how often he went from the right shoulder to the left lane. Of course, it was okay, because he always ended up back in his correct travel lane, and he never drove faster than eight miles below the speed limit, except in passing zones, where he topped 60.

I think he finally hung up when another, equally August-challenged driver passed us both on a curve, only to slam on brakes and make an unsignalled left turn a short hundred yards away.
I do not like the month of August.

Something about motor vehicles and August brings out the worst in people; even folks with air conditioners get cranky. Maybe we’re trying to escape the heat and humidity, and are frustrated since a true escape from August cannot be attained. Indeed, I’m pretty sure it’s hot even in Arctic places during August, causing the seals and polar bears to get testy.

Everybody seems to get ill-tempered during this month. My beloved adopted sister, Michelle “Little’un” Squires, coined the phrase “Don’t make me get my August on,” and indeed, it seems to fit the month.

Did I mention that I do not like the month of August?

Despite the fact that all yellow flies are supposed to die after the first big rain in July (we did actually have one or two good storms) I think the varmints just hibernate until August. All I know for sure is that they have returned at our house; not in the maddening swarms of May and June, but just enough to aggravate an already-aggravated person.

One reason I think there aren’t so many yellow flies now is because they came to an agreement with the wasps, horseflies (of at least three types), yellow jackets, fire ants, fleas, ticks and the unknown but harmless looking bug that bites like an unhappy mother-in-law. They understand that if they all visit at the same times, the food supplies will run out, leaving blood-drained husks of humans huddled around a citronella candle on my front porch.

I can just see a smoke-filled convention hall where all the bugs are hanging out, negotiating biting rights and blood-sucking treaties between species. No, wait, that’s one of those political party conventions in a state that has decided to hold its presidential primaries four or five years in advance, like the Olympics. It’s hard to tell the difference these days between biting, stinging, blood-sucking pests and politicians.

I’m pretty sure Shakespeare hated August.

While England in August can’t be as hot as southeastern North Carolina, I’m still pretty sure the Bard was referring to August in particular when he penned the line “Now is the summer of our discontent.”

Wait a minute. Will was talking about winter, not summer. There’s another reason to hate August – the heat saps my memory. What was I writing about, anyway?

Oh yes. I detest the month of August.

My chickens won’t set (they’ll barely lay). My dogs are as ill-tempered as a Yankee who doesn’t understand grits. My hog is morose, and the less said about my cats the better, since they have a rather disgusting way of wreaking vengeance in the middle of the night.

The problem beavers who give me an excuse to trap year-round are no longer being problematic. For Pete’s sake, whoever heard of a lazy beaver? Just wait until August, and I’ll show you a few.

The aforementioned bugs and the need to go to work in the mornings wipe out the best fishing time (although sometimes even the catfish get lazy in August).

But in a few weeks, everything will be all right.

It’ll start getting better the Saturday before Labor Day, when dove season opens. Then there will be a morning or two when the temperature hangs around the 70 degree mark for an hour or two more before summer regains its senses and realizes it still has a month or so to top 90 by noon.

By then, the water in our favorite swimming hole will no longer be refreshing, but almost chilly. The air conditioners will no longer drown out every sound in the universe, and the hum of a fan will slowly fade into the crackle of autumn leaves and the whisper of pine straw.

High school football teams will no longer be practicing or half-heartedly playing in the heat of a sticky sunset, but instead the lights and the dreams will once again illuminate ballparks everywhere.

It’s thoughts like these that keep me going through August, reminders that the trial that is the eighth month will, like all others, eventually pass, giving way to the reward that is September and the celebration that is October.

For the time being, though, we still have to get through August – and as I may have mentioned before, August is a month I despise.

Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter. Contact him via telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or by e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz. Just remember he might be grumpy until September.