Indian Summer

Unexpectedly warm days keep the dread of winter at bay a little while longer. They call it an "Indian Summer," which I hope has pleasant etymological roots. I hope it has to do with Native Americans taking advantage of the warm temperatures and sunshine to pack up a few extra things before moving south; or for those staying put in longhouses, maybe they stacked a few more ricks of firewood with their shirts off, sweating. An Indian Summer is like the grace of undeserved goodness. A gift. A surprise.

Two weeks ago we put away the kids' summer clothes, assuming that the end of it was here and Fall was upon us. We folded the striped shorts and worn Old Navy T-shirts and placed them in boxes marked "Spring/Summer 2006." We stacked them on closet shelves with resignation.

Then the warmth comes, the gift. We are tempted to pull down the boxes, but instead find an extra pair of shorts in the bottom of the laundry basket and pull them on. We run, jump, climb and laugh.

I secretly hope for an Indian Summer each year, but never count on it. When the weatherman shakes his head and announces it's going to be in the 70s Farenheit this week, I grin. I packed up the kids' shorts, but I didn't pack up mine. Maybe I do count on it? I know I hope.

Tomorrow, the day when it should reach 70, I may pull down a pair of tan shorts, and even if I'm a bit too cool, I'll wear them during the sunniest part of the afternoon. I'll listen to the kids swing and laugh and shriek like they did on summer evenings catching fireflies and lighting sparklers. Maybe I'll go on a jog. We could go to the park. We could play tag or soccer in the back yard. Shoot, we could just sit on a chair in the sunshine and feel the warmth pour over our faces. We could make lemonade or iced tea.

We can be warm.