According to one poll of adult Americans (https://today..ougov.com/society/articles/45312-americans-favorite-and-least-favorite-months-year), thirty-nine percent love the month of June and an additional forty-one percent like June. Nine percent of American adults dislike June, only three percent hate it. I do not know how the results should be interpreted, except it further demonstrates that Americans cannot agree about anything nowadays. As I looked at this poll, I initially thought its most surprising statistic was that eight percent of adult Americans said they were not sure how to feel about the month of June.
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For most of my life, had you asked I would have told you that June absolutely was my favorite month of the year. And why not? For one thing, where Lola the pup and I live, it is the first month (and there is only a small handful) when you can count on consistently warm temperatures.
In June, the grass is green; trees and flowers are in bloom. The city garden Lee lovingly designed, nourished, and maintained is already peak color and fragrant, too boot –the first bloom of roses is emerging, and large peonies, alongside numerous other flowers of every shape and size. Like magic, by June, a large patch of native grasses and plants at the rear of our yard is fully recovered after having survived another harsh winter without my help, save for cutting it back to the nubs to promote the new growth.
For many, June also marks the end of the school year. What young kid doesn’t count down the last days with a sense of increasing excitement and anticipation? For the older kids, June is the time for proms and graduations.
Through open windows and doorways, I can hear my neighbors’ music. Occasionally, I will plug an electric guitar into an amp and serenade the passerby as they walk home from the subway after another day on the job.
On a gentle breeze the pleasant summer smell of barbecue wafts over the fence onto my property. I deeply inhale.
Even without any major holiday to embellish it, June injects a celebratory vibe into our city. June prompts decent people to be more outgoing, perhaps even a bit friendlier, than they are used to acting in the presence of strangers. Lola and I enjoy sitting on the front porch to take in the street action. A fine June morning can leave me feeling like the de facto mayor of our street. And, based on their reactions, neighbors young and old, and strangers alike, react to Lola’s presence as if she were its undoubted Queen.
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As I say, many adult Americans view June as their favorite month, and most feel positive about its arrival. For many years, I had included myself among them.
I had personal reasons, too. For example, June 27 was my mother’s birthday, providing a special reason for me to celebrate the month, doubly so, since June 27 is my birthday, too. Moreover, every June Lee and I would happily celebrate our marriage.
But my mother has been gone for many years now. Today, her birthday calls for remembrance, not a celebration. I turn seventy-three in just a few weeks, but with each passing year, I am less inclined to celebrate this annual reminder of my approaching mortality than the June preceding it.
Most of all, however, June also marks Lee’s last full month of life. As the anniversary of Lee’s death on July 2 is fast approaching, every June also reminds me in a visceral way of her terrible, wasted physical state, the unbearable screaming pain the cancer forced upon her, and the heavy, overwhelming sense of sadness we all felt about her inevitable departure from this mortal coil, the awful knowledge that comes with accepting finally that there is nothing more to be done to stave off or reverse the inevitable process of death.
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The consequences of time’s passage never cease to surprise me. Until quite recently, I would have sworn June was without question my favorite month.The many valid reasons, including my personal reasons, for loving the month of June persist, of course, yet I am now firmly part of the undecided.
