Ah yes, June 21st. The sunniest of all sunny days. The longest stretch of daylight we get all year. Birds are chirping. People are frolicking. Instagram is ablaze with flower crowns and iced coffee.
Meanwhile, I’m over here side-eyeing the sun like it just double dipped at a potluck. Why? Because this—this bright, chipper, UV-saturated day—is the beginning of the end.
That’s right. We peaked. It’s all downhill from here. The days only get shorter now. Every evening, a few more seconds of light get snatched away like nature's version of daylight robbery. It’s a slow-motion horror film for those of us who like to finish chores without a headlamp strapped to our foreheads.
And I know what you’re thinking: “But summer is so beautiful!”
Just so we’re clear, I’m not anti-summer. I enjoy a good watermelon. I’ve been known to frolic occasionally. But what really grinds my gears is that from this point on, every morning sunrise is a little later, every evening sunset a little earlier. But by the time August hits, I’m already mourning the light. Because I know what’s coming. I’m emotionally preparing for the return of seasonal depression and frozen windshields.
Yep. Come winter, I’m out in the chicken coop stringing up bulbs like it’s Studio 54. Chickens need 12 to 14 hours of light a day to keep laying eggs, and let me tell you—those divas do not perform under poor lighting conditions. So there I am, running extension cords through snowdrifts so Henrietta can keep dropping eggs like the little oviparous prima donna she is.
Which brings me to my favorite day of the year: December 21st.
The shortest, darkest, most Vitamin D-deficient day on the calendar. While the rest of the world is clutching their SAD lamps and threatening to move to Florida, I’m out here in my thermal underwear doing a victory lap around the barn. Because that day? That day means we’re on the upswing. More daylight tomorrow. Even more the day after that. Eventually—gloriously—I get to unplug the chicken light.
And it's not just any unplugging. Oh no. This is a ceremony. There’s pomp. There’s circumstance. There may or may not be a bathrobe involved. I march out there like the Queen of Daylight, extension cord in hand, chickens watching with mild confusion as I declare, “Ladies, the sun hath returned! Lay at will!”
And just like that, we’re back on track.
No more electric bills for your eggs, Henrietta.
So while the rest of you are out twirling through the summer solstice in your flip-flops, sipping sun tea and pretending not to notice the mosquitoes, I’ll be in the shade with my iced herb tea and a countdown clock to winter.
Happy First Day of Summer.
Let the shrinking begin.
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