Somehow, before I had kids, summertime was never a big deal. I simply loved
the change changing of the seasons, the unpredictability, keeping us on our
toes around here.
Despite the heat and all that bright sunlight, and the goodness that it brought to the land to grow the living things to food, for the most part what I loved about summertime, not being especially a fish, was the sandals, the T-shirts and short jeans. The ease of waking to the warm, showering in the warm, and racing out into your young uncertain life, in the warm.
What seemed good about the warm was hikes with friends, a backpack heavy with delicious picnic lunches, as far up as we possibly could hike; then , falling upon the rocky ledges, laughing, pulling out everything, eating and talking , as we looked off into the distance.
Sunday mornings in Brattleboro at The
Common Ground found us sleepy and satiated from a night of serious carousing,
out on the sunflecked terrace, two floors up, looking out over the Connecticut,
over the small crowded town, over the streets filled with all sorts of
interesting people, and the laggard weekend mornings.
Or visiting the bakery, stumbling out greedily with terrible sugar rush of a chocolatey filling-dripped éclair for breakfast, grasping mind blowing caffeine-thick coffee.
The group of friends seeing each other week in and week out, pulling out their fiddles and mandolins and banjos and guitars, flirting and laughing ,and exploring life as any fledglings do.
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