As summer simmers and cools, I’m beginning to feel the first inklings of seasonal affective disorder. I’ve not been medically diagnosed, and Lord knows I don’t aim to make light of SAD, I only know that I’ve been battling its perennial funk since 1988, the year I moved away from Kentucky.
I suspect gardeners in Zones south of here aren’t seasonally affected mentally during January, February, and March as much as those of us here in the northeast. Or perhaps I feel this way because I’ve never completely assimilated? I still have my south-central Kentucky accent, and I still miss the aroma of burley tobacco curing in an old barn even after 20 years of living with Yankees.
Maybe the aging process has something to do with how I’m feeling. It probably does. But thankfully, I still love the taste of a BLT sandwich and if I had more room, I’d grow hogs here too.