I wore a sweater this morning. A black V-neck, of thin-ish Merino wool, the kind I add to my inventory each year when the moths get last year’s and the new ones go on sale at Costco for about $20. It’s a magic price point.
I wore a sweater this morning, Aug. 25, 2019, around 9 a.m. EDT, at the Jersey Shore. The Weather Channel app said it was 63 degrees and cloudy; the breeze from the northeast had kicked up a bit and the flags were fluttering while the cattails were swaying.
I wore a sweater this morning until about noon, when the sun worked some of its magic and warmed anybody in its rays. Some of its magic, because the air never got past 69, and because the gusts kept jamming fat clouds between the sun and me. And because the wind was — ugh! — chilly.
It’s not sweater season, not at the Jersey Shore, not yet, even though Labor Day Weekend — next weekend! — drops like a guillotine on what people consider the summer.
We had a spring this year; we had a nice stretch of warming days that coaxed the blooms. But then we had monsoons that vexed backyard gardeners and wreaked havoc on their tomatoes, the official fruit of New Jersey (at least, I think it is).
The flawless lawn burned out in July and the crabgrass and goose grass are the only verdant, succulent leaves reaching toward the sun.
Which was feeble today. So I wore a sweater.
The equinox is about a month away. We’re coming into peak hurricane season. The ocean is tepid at last.
Please, Mama Nature: Let me leave the sweater in the drawer with the mothballs a little longer.
Enjoy the cool my friend because soon regardless of the opinion at the top, it won’t be that delightful any more … she says under a blanket because all the windows are open