Alas, Poor August

As the hours tick away, soon the sun will sink gently in the west, and then poor August will

be with us no longer. So while there is still time, let's raise our Solo cups together and

remember August. A simple man, trying not to make a big contribution to society but only

trying to keep his humble shoe shop open for the passing parade, ready to help with a new

shoe lace, heel taps, sole, or even soul, repairs.

But eventually, poor August could not keep his beastly landlord from the door. The owner bustled through the open door, bringing the heat and humidity clinging to his

prosperous body. He flamboyantly told August that he would give him only one more

month to pay him the three months rent he owed. After making this harsh proclamation,

the owner left as he had entered, as they say, in a huff.

Upon hearing his sentence, August looked at the Cats' Paw calendar on the wall. The

calendar was old, yellow and tattered. Times were so bad that the Paw people no longer

sent him new calendars. No matter, August's days no longer needed to be correctly

identified, as long as he knew what month it was.

So, as the stooped and somber shoemaker glanced at the calendar he realized it was the

first day of the last month of summer. Slowly he gathered an old piece of a cardboard box

and his black shoe polish. The latter was somewhat difficult to locate because if you're

not buying shoe laces you sure don't want a shine.

He put the items on his display case, almost completely empty now, and located an old

rag, a simple task since all his rags were old. Not a new rag in the shop. Hopefully, you

are now acutely aware that this man is destitute.

August began to write a message on the cardboard using the shoe polish as ink. When

he finished his message, he slowly put it in the front window among the clay pots

holding a few "mother-in-laws tongues" and a droopy ivy plant. There were still a few

display items meant to entice customers into the store.

After he arranged the sign, August went to the back room, an even a more pathetic sight

than his workshop, and took his old brown sweater that he wore, even in summer. He

turned out the 60- watt light and walked to the door. He looked around, either to see if

he had forgotten anything or to take in what he would be giving up soon. He smiled.

He had forgotten his old Thermos bottle, now filled with 8-hour-old coffee.

Finally, he left the shop and locked the door. He walked to the front window and admired

his heartfelt message to the neighborhood. The sign proclaimed:

The first of September will be the last of August