Late Summer on the Farm

By John Helms | A Country Journal

A local fishing hole--Simpson Lake
...a great place to sit in the shade and fish.

It’s August in Mississippi, and as a foreign visitor once told me when I introduced her and her husband to a warm summer breeze one evening on the beach on the Mississippi coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the breeze that blows in from the Gulf “feels like warm velvet on your skin.” Those of us who live here are not as polite as she was that evening. The heat and humidity envelop you like a damp woolen blanket this time of year.  The mornings start slow, with dew on the grass and a chorus of crickets still lingering from the night. They are followed by the cheerful whistles of the Robin and later joined by Mockingbirds, Mourning Doves and Sparrows. By midday, the sun presses down hard, and everything—plants, animals, people—moves a little slower. Down here, we all look forward to those few days William Faulkner wrote about in his novel “Light in August” that foretell the changing weather. He famously commented on the specific feel of August in Mississippi when he told of a unique quality of light rather than explicitly cooler days. He noted that in the middle of August in Mississippi, there are a few days with a "foretaste of fall" where the air becomes "cool," and the light takes on a "lambence, a soft, a luminous quality" as if it were from "the old classic times.” 

The hens are holding steady. We’re down to ten now, thanks to a few raccoons who outsmarted my early coop design. I’ve reinforced the latches and added motion lights, but I still check the pen every evening like clockwork. They’re good birds—resilient, vocal, and still laying enough eggs to keep us in breakfast.

The garden’s pushing through the heat. Okra’s thriving, tomatoes are hanging on, and the peppers seem to enjoy the challenge. I’ve been working on a small greenhouse, piece by piece, hoping to extend the growing season once the cooler air arrives, but the heat is slowing progress on that project.

This time of year always feels like a turning point. The heat is still here, but the light is changing. The days are just a little shorter. The cicadas are louder. And the land seems to be whispering that fall isn’t far off, though we know it is at least six weeks away. There is no groundhog to predict the arrival of fall in the south; we just have to anxiously wait for the first day when the weather is right for us to shake the dust off our flannel shirts and slip them on for the cool days ahead. 

Thanks for stopping by, friend. I’ll be back soon with more from the coop, the garden, and the porch swing.

copyright © 2025 John Helms