George Elbert Burr: The Desert (19th-20th century)

"…its presence always seems unreasonable, but only because it is."

The center of my universe sits squarely in desert, though it claims to be a place of many waters. What was once a place of many waters has become a place of contested waters, as competing interests and a historically dry summer have left our river and streams barely trickling. Furthermore, the weather has seemed unrelenting, with very little moisture and extreme heat punishing even the more hopeful gardeners. I water reluctantly. What should be a pleasure becomes toil. What was supposed to be toil becomes all but impossible. It's too hot to even think about going outside some days and far to hot to imagine accomplishing anything out there, anyway.

In here seems little better as closed windows come to feel as confining as jail bars. We try to open the windows overnight, but in late August, the overnight low temperatures remain intemperate, too hot to cool anything down. I sleep on a hardly restful hot pillow. I become fitful, as stir crazy as I get in the depths of winter when freezing fog holds me captive. I am native to this rimrock country, but I'm still adapting to its extremes. It's truly lovely here in spring and fall, and hellishly hot through most of every summer. We've gratefully gotten very little smoke this year.

The cats go feral through the summer. They appear early each morning and about six each evening. Otherwise, they hide in the cooler shade beneath the bigger bushes, frequently crouching over the pond to wet their whistles. Their fur doesn't seem to encumber them, however hot it gets. They remain seemingly cool and collected, willing to come inside just long enough to feast before insisting that I open the door for them again. They most often prefer to dine al fresco in the shade of the back deck beneath the planters overflowing with petunia and Black-Eyed Susan. I might sit beside a mister as evening settles in, while supper-making heats the kitchen. I run sprinklers then, trying to bring the backyard temperature down to something tolerable.

I love this place, and I despise it for some of each year. I fear Late Summer when the dust appears on the trails, when my old reliables turn back into unreliable companions. I sleep poorly and yawn my way through my predawn rituals. I work at my desk in pitch darkness, with the broad, double-hung window open to the world. I watch the dog walkers maintain their rigid schedules. We lost a neighbor this week, an old acquaintance who founded the third-oldest winery in this valley. The County Fair opened yesterday, and The Muse took her turn as a commissioner in the Port's booth. For the first time in several years, I have no booth obligations this year, so I probably won't attend the fair. It seems too hot out there, and I finally understand it's really for others. Last year, I could not find my favorite ice cream vendor, and the year before, I attended my first rodeo and left appalled after fifteen minutes. I had no idea it was basically Worldwide Wrestling, torturing innocent animals. Besides, I still have painting to do on our never-ending porch remodeling project.

This has always been the season of my deepest discontent. In my earliest years, school would start and distract me until it started raining again. When I lived in Portland, the rains came earlier than they ever come here. Portland always was better watered. I have no defense against the worst of this season. It returns and reliably wounds me again. I suspect that even Heaven features one unbearable season. Everywhere I've been seems to include at least one. Some places I've lived featured four fundamentally unbearable seasons, each torturous for its own reason. At least, it reliably haunts just the tail end of one season here, though its presence always seems unreasonable, but only because it is.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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