Editor’s note: This series of blogs was written last year by Anneli Carter-Sundqvist about her and her husband Dennis’ adventures homesteading and running a hostel on Deer Isle. The entire year of blog posts are contained in the book A Homesteader’s Year on Deer Isle (see www.deerislehostel.com).

Suddenly, as if we’ve been transported in time, we are half-way through August and the summer won’t last forever anymore but only for a few more weeks. As always, I don’t know how it happened, where it went or where the first signs of fall came from. All I know is that suddenly the peak of the season is upon us and ahead is a slow winding road to the silent winter.

I’ve spent days thinking about this blog entry and what to write—something that’s on my mind, something interesting, perhaps educational, slightly radical. But what’s on my mind can best be described visually, by a flat hand held an inch from my face: all I can think of is what is right here right now.

The pig pen needs to be moved and if it’s sunny tomorrow, I can paint the corner boards of the chicken house. I have to remember to check the Brassicas for caterpillars, remember to pick the onions soon, clean up the garlic, pick the Shiitakes, bag them, sell them.

We have our big FarmFeast dinner event next Saturday: I don’t have plates, I don’t have a musician, I have a car with a hole in the gas tank to fetch the ten tables and 30 chairs. Four days from now I’m giving a workshop in organic gardening, which I remember only thanks to the ads someone else posted. I have another slightly major undertaking three weeks from now that I should start worrying about. But what’s the point? My hand is already so close to my face I can’t see beyond it.

The summer doesn’t so much slip through my fingers as it escapes me with a wild roar. I’ve already seen the signs: the first yellow leaves, the golden rods, the steam from my mouth one early morning. Sure, there are still summer-ripe peaches to eat and my annual swim across the pond and there are still a number of guests whose presence we’ll enjoy. Nevertheless, I don’t know where the summer went or where it’s going after leaving, all I know is that the road will end in winter and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t enjoyed it, just as I’d be lying if I said I didn’t long for fall.