Tom and I are summer people. We live for that moment when everything wakes up, stretches, and bursts into color. Technically, that’s spring—but spring here has a way of being moody, unreliable, and often still wrapped in its winter coat. So, summer is when we truly exhale and wander back out into the world.
Except this year, we didn’t.
Not once.
No alpaca farm.
No farmers market.
No sandwiches tucked away in the woods.
No lakeside strolls, no car shows, no baseball games.
And—perhaps the saddest of them all—no sunflower farm… until yesterday.
A Late-Season Pilgrimage
We’ve been making the sunflower pilgrimage once a year for about five seasons now. The farm is 75 miles away, which makes it a once-a-summer treat. We chose yesterday because, for the first time since June, the humidity dropped low enough that our AC-less car ride felt survivable.
The trip itself was a trial—two hours longer than usual, enough to test anyone’s patience. But nature has a way of paying back persistence.
Drooping Reflections
At first, I wasn’t sure it would. The fields near the entrance were tired. Low-hanging heads, spotted with fungus, drooping like they’d given their all. And honestly? It matched how we’ve felt this summer—spent, wilted, worn out.
But deeper in, there it was: one glorious last field of the season.
Tall sunflowers, golden faces lifted high, defiant against the season’s end. And thousands—literally thousands—of bees. Usually, when we visit earlier in the year, the bees are scattered and the crowds are thick. Yesterday, with cooler weather and end-of-season timing, we had the field almost to ourselves. Just wind, buzzing bees, and the occasional bird song. I always try to bottle that sound in my mind. This year, it was even sweeter in the quiet.
An Unexpected Visitor
Just as I was thinking of heading back, I felt a sensation on my hand. A monarch butterfly had landed. I startled and it lifted—but only to perch on a nearby leaf, waiting patiently as I fumbled out my humble cell phone.
For five magical minutes, it danced for me, wings glowing orange against the fading green of leaves. Monarchs, fragile-looking yet fierce enough to travel thousands of miles, reminded me of us: tired, but tougher than we give ourselves credit for.
A Familiar Friend
On the way out, there was one more gift. A fluffy farm cat lounging in the shade, pretending not to notice us. I nearly walked past, but at the last second, I knelt to say hello.
He leapt up immediately—purring, rubbing, bumping against my hand as if we were old friends. Tom joined in, and the cat doubled his affection, meowing like a friend who was catching up with us after a long year.
“Happy shiny animal aura people,” Tom calls us. And maybe he’s right.
Summer, Redeemed
We didn’t check off the usual list this summer. No festivals, no lake days, no car shows. But in one late-season trip—bees humming, monarchs dancing, sunflowers blazing, and a cat’s purr vibrating against our hands—we got our summer after all. (scroll all the way down for all pictures)
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