August is the meanest month.

April is the cruelest month, breeding/Lilacs out of dead land, mixing/Memory and desire, stirring/Dull roots with spring rain,” — opening to T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land.

Perhaps April is the cruelest month, according to T.S. Eliot and his modernist poem, or perhaps it is a month of renewal and spring. That is something poets and philosophers and lovers could argue about.

I believe August truly is the meanest month.

Sure, not all would agree. Some would point out that a blizzard kills more people than a heat wave. Others would wave a hand to hot continents like Africa and say, look, it’s hot there, hotter than hot and yet people live and thrive and sing songs and find joy. Those people would not be wrong. Joy could be found in August (and on hot continents), just as it could be found in the middle of a January blizzard. But, for me, August kills joy as surely as if it was made of sulfur and sprinkled with forever chemicals.

I live in Aurora, Colorado, United States of America, almost smack dab in the middle of the state, almost smack dab in the middle of the country. This here is high desert. I can take a drive and be in the Rocky Mountains in less than an hour — depending on traffic. The altitude here is pretty high — we are at one mile above sea level and inordinately proud of this fact. By the way, if you plan to visit and you live at sea level, it would be a good idea to start adding at least a daily low dose aspirin to your diet to thin your blood, so when you do visit the…