It is morning. In my opinion, the best time of day.

A break from the heat wave is always welcome. Open windows and doors provide a special concert by the birds outside. It beats listening to the drone of air conditioning units.

I sit outdoors reading the morning newspaper. It is like a limp rag in my hands, due to the humidity.

The aroma of freshly mown lawns permeates the air. It smells so much sweeter when someone else is doing the mowing.

Morning is pleasurable because the neighbors have not yet fired up the grill so that aroma does not interfere with the wonderful scents of nature. Alas, it is but an ephemeral enjoyment as summer is all too short. Like a tasty bite of chocolate fudge, that is on one’s lips but a short time, but the memory lingers.

There is beauty in falling snow, but it does not give off the delightful aroma of springtime. I associate winter smells with privately owned gas-driven snow blowers, and diesel fuel from passing street plows and buses.

Just a short while ago we moaned about the never-ending winter and its cold weather. There was no spring and we again went from winter to summer. Will we have to change our calendars some day and take no note of March 20-21? I hope not.

Four seasons become more of a joke each year. As one wag put it, we have but two seasons: winter and construction.

I understand planting is late this year out here in the land of corn and soybeans. It was very wet this year so farmers had to postpone planting.

And yet it seems we still always manage to have a bountiful harvest in the fall. Farmers are still the pillars of our society, I believe, although they are fewer in numbers than before.

Corn may not be knee-high by the Fourth of July this year, but I look forward to motoring past the tall corn soon enough. Impatient motorists getting stuck behind slow-moving farm equipment is the norm, but who’s complaining? Where would we be without our farmers? I’d hate to even consider such a future.

Enjoy each day. We never know when it will end, and soon Jack Frost will make his annual visit, turning the barren trees into frosty pieces of art. By that time we will again welcome the change in season.