A Few Small Berries...

Today is the longest day of the year.

I was never concerned about the sun's position in the heavens when I was living in Georgia. The sun was everywhere and winter was the opportunity to wear cords. Not until we moved to New England did we gain a proper appreciation for the summer. It is a short, sweet season to be cherished, but also to be spent preparing for the next winter. Hanging over my head are the cracked windows, the old windows, the boiler, the chimney.

The biggest holiday in the Finnish summer is Juhannuspäivä. Friday is Juhannuspäivä ilta and bonfires will burn across Finland and flags will fly at the appointed time.

One friend in Finland told us that some Finns become morose on Juhannuspäivä because the days will quickly start to grow shorter. We experienced how quickly the days became longer so I have a sense of how quickly you feel the approach of the winter even while lighting your bonfire and savoring your new potatoes.

I recently discovered this blog, The Blog of Henry David Thoreau. His blog entry for June 17 sums up the mixed emotions of midsummer:

.Thoreau's Journal: 17-Jun-1854

Another remarkably hazy day: our view is confined, the horizon near, no mountains; as you look off only four or five miles, you see a succession of dark wooded ridges and vales filled with mist. It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven, these days. We live in a grosser element. We [are] getting deeper into the mists of earth. Even the birds sing with less vigor and vivacity. The season of hope and promise is past; already the season of small fruits has arrived. The Indians marked the midsummer as the season when berries were ripe. We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes and their fulfillment. The prospect of the heavens is taken away, and we are presented with a few small berries.

I was floored by the beauty of this sentence:

We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes and their fulfillment. The prospect of the heavens is taken away, and we are presented with a few small berries.

I think Thoreau was expressing his inner Finn.

What would Thoreau say about the monster berry I picked at Apple Hill? Things have changed. Yesterday he wrote that he was wearing nothing around his neck. Good for you Thoreau. Lay aside the neck wear. Take a dip in Walden pond. Winter is coming!