It’s not officially summer yet, but it sure feels that way with the heat, the thunder and rain, followed by shiny sparkly sunshine and the halter dresses in full bloom. Every time of year has its glory and summer is the season of sugary novels, comfortable disarray, beach nostalgia, and fun.
Out come the serving trays, blankets and the froofy fruity drinks; along with lotion smelling of coconut and colorful Eliza B flip-flops. We have already barbequed twice. The kids are all onto it. The new college grad is already on a beach with a boy. The gang of teenage boys too have slipped into summer mode and linger outside with iPods turned LOUD. Our oldest son is already fishing and the younger ones are walking around town with skateboards and big happy grins. There’s a pile of balls and frisbees by the door, and if you get down on your knees at just the right angle, you can see perfectly smudged footprints from damp, dusty feet on the wood floor in the hallway.
There have been requests for homemade ice cream, lights for the basketball court, campfires, the new giant marshmallows as big as baseballs supposedly available at the store, new high def swim goggles and sunscreen. Someone needs a beach blanket for the quarry, and someone else is thinking about freshly squeezed watermelon popsicles.
After this coming weekend, there are only 8 days of school left including finals. I’m not wasting any time. Summer is near, and there are things to be done. I’ve added to my list a few good books, those giant marshmallows and some flavored ones I head about too. I am thinking s’mores with those cookies that have dark chocolate already on one side. I just ordered some prickly pear nectar online and am imagining salt -rimmed marguerites on the porch. Yesterday John cleaned out the chicken house and I got the juicer going and made up a batch of watermelon juice. This glass of red frothy goodness is the very definition of the taste of a summer morning. I realized recently that if I live to be 90 I have only 42 summers left. And if I only live to be 85 then I’ve just got 37 left. So I’ve really got to make every single one of these count.
Since it’s going to be another sultry afternoon I am thinking that after work we should head over to the river with the dogs maybe with a pitcher of those prickly pear margaritas. Who knows what might happen after that?