June tenth. A date as snug and neat as a new pair of Keds, all laced up and ready to cha-cha.
June has its act together. Look at all the birds that get married in June. Pastor Owl and Reb Goldfinch officiating. And the baby birds that fledge. And more to come. Fireflies! New rounds of flowers! The "high-tide of the year," as Jim Lowell puts it in his "What is so rare?" poem.
If May was migration and courtship, then June is arrival and settling down. Paying the first down payment. Embarking up the wrong tree—correcting—embarking up the right tree. Getting out in the sailboat, doing grand things with tools and paintbrushes. Daring to eat a peach, a plum, an apricot, cherries. Corn on the cob. Picking strawberries at Russell Orchards on Father's Day, then eating strawberry shortcake while listening to Old Cold Tater play bluegrass.
June is perfect. June is mature. June is a little boring. But not jejune (empty, meager, puerile). June Lockhart, June Allyson, June Havoc. Well, maybe not June Havoc. Maybe June Haver, who was married to Fred MacMurray.
June is part spring, part summer, and it can be part sunburn and part poison ivy and mosquito bite and hurricane. (Okay, June Havoc, too. And June Carter. And the June Taylor dancers [above, right] .) June takes some getting to know. I'll get back to you.