Tim and I headed out to Sisters, Oregon, on Tuesday. As an anniversary gift, I got us tickets to hear The Kruger Brothers at The Belfry (no bats included). Music is one of the few areas of our lives that we are in kinship over. We both enjoy anything with bluegrass influence. If you have the chance to hear the Kruger Brothers it will be worth every penny: Go. Of course, we like most any style of music from Disney to the occasional Disco. Thank you, John Travolta. The one exception is Tim loves monks chanting and I’d rather pierce my ear drum with a screwdriver.

The evening with the Kruger Brothers was one of the finest musical nights I’ve experienced in a long while. The Belfry was packed and everyone seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. But there was that one moment when they played a familiar tune that had me wincing. No one, absolutely no one, no matter how good they are can sing Fields of Gold better than Eva Cassidy. That’s not to say the Kruger Brothers didn’t do an admirable job. They did, but it was Eva’s voice I heard in my head, and her voice, her story, her song always reminds me of The Redhead. They both died of cancer way too early, The Redhead and Eva Cassidy.

Two of our grands started school back this week. The oldest one went to bed grieving the end of summer. Thinking back to how fast his summer went by, he told his mom he wished he’d enjoyed the days more. When she tried to console him that there would be other summers, other opportunities to hike and travel, he, always the rationale fella, said, “But I will never go on those trips again. Even if we go backpacking again it won’t be the same.”

When we buried Mama in the summer of 2013, I placed honeysuckle vines in the grave before pouring in her ashes. Honeysuckle. A few summers ago, we started growing a honeysuckle vine along our porch. This summer I taught the grands how to suck the honey out of the end of the flowers. Flowers the color of a brilliant summer sunset. It feels like that at the end of every summer to me – that I am trying my best to suck the honey from the flowering vine. Sometimes I can taste it.

Time goes by so fast a girlfriend said to me this week, thinking of the years that have passed since her beloved husband died. “Rolling stones gather momentum,” I replied and we both laughed and winced a bit.

This morning after I dressed in shorts in a t-shirt, I walked outside and there was a definite autumn chill in the air. Our friend Rick once wrote to say he wished he’d gone barefoot more during the summer. The barefoot days of summer are passing us by once again. Like my grand, I, too, grieve all that has been than will never be again.

The honeysuckle has dried up on the vine, but boy didn’t we get all the honey from it while it lasted. It won’t be long now before I put Harvest Moon on repeat and Tim and I will be slow dancing underneath the porch lights and evergreens.