From the temperature, it’s hard to believe it’s Fall. It has been in the 80s for a week now. It only gets cold at night, but it gets cold at night in July here, so no biggie. The taste of the air and lilt of light is the only way to detect Fall.
Last night, it became cold suddenly. We were standing on this big deck and POW! it was cold. Very sudden. My son and I even talked about it.
“Did you just feel that?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said, knowing immediately what I meant. “It was instant.”
He told me how he loved the air here, meaning Custer. Thin and delicate, in the evenings sweet and earthy like honey.
This picture is of my favorite lake down in those parts, Sylvan Lake. It’s man-made, built under orders from FDR himself during the depression. In those days, the whole country was out of work, so the government started making people build shit, like this lake. There are no natural lakes in the Black Hills, but today there are about half a dozen, all courtesy of FDR.
I always loved Sylvan Lake the best, though I understand fishing ain’t much there. It makes no never mind to me because I don’t fish, but the people who do seem to go to Center or Legion or Angostura.
Us beauty whores go to Sylvan and just sort of stumble around it addled and kinda high. We cast dirty looks at vehicles with out of state plates, muttering “Go home” under our breath and recalling fondly the rape scene in Deliverance.