Not a morning person. Won’t deny it. But Lyft is offering a 7:30 bonus this week so I’m up and chasing it. And school starts in under two weeks so my early morning’s are about to get a little earlier – may as well get back in the swing.

But there’s something about an August morning in Ohio that stays with you. No matter how hot July …. or the day before …. August morning usually have a little chill. And dew. Or sometimes fog. Perhaps it’s that moisture that cements its place in my memory.

In the 60’s August meant several things. The end of haying season. 4-H Camp. And the fair. The cold of the floor as your otherwise warm feet hit it in the dim light of dawn. The calves, tied out over night, their backs slick and glistening, huffing great grey-white clouds of steam as you dragged them back into the barn. Once I got my drivers license and drove to the fairgrounds, rather than either sleeping there, or a few blocks away at my aunt’s house, the fog became an issue. It was thick as I left the house and necessitated headlights, although it usually burned off by the time I got to the fairgrounds. So I forgot my headlights. And had to be jumped that night to make my way home. And then there was August 16, 1977.

Mornings at camp. Bare feet on that cold concrete. The smell. I will, God willing, NEVER forget the sounds and scents and feels of Clifton Gorge. Occasionally the first suggestion of the bacon and sausage from the dining hall. The coming storm, or the ions from the one which had just passed. The steam rising from the blacktop basketball court at the lodge. What I wouldn’t give for one more day for my 14-year old self to be there. Of course I’m selfish. I’d want to posses a lot of the hard-learned lessons that have since been absorbed.

From ’70 through ’73 it also meant two-a-days. I have virtually NO memories of those times, only fleeting associations. That should tell you everything you need to know about my high school football career.

And then there was the running. The silence of the fog. The simple joy of running in the cool wet air knowing that in a matter of hours it would be 20-30 degrees hotter. I remember running through corn fields – those broad leaves cut and scratch and itch like hell. I don’t recommend it. But it could be joyous – bursting out of a field on the far side, onto a gravel country road or an old tractor path, to continue on, knowing that weather you had one mile or a dozen left the damp cornfield would NOT be a part of it.

And so it is that these mornings, in my seventh decade, as I slide out from under the covers into a chilly bedroom, blessed with the fresh air from a window open all night, I draw on those memories of a life well lived. And still BEING well lived.