Summer

My skin beaded up with sweat as I stepped off the front porch this morning. 

No doubt about it: it’s summer. More specifically it’s that part of summer where you wake up with your mouth dry, your head pulsing. 

It’s that part of summer with brown patches of grass dotted along the quiet street. I noticed last night that I haven’t heard kids playing outside in more than a month. 

I imagine everyone inside their house. The a/c wheezing along, trying to keep up without relief. The blinds drawn, every light bulb off, the buzz of a box fan set on ‘high’. People resembling puddles from a dirty mop all over each living room couch. 

Oh, wait, maybe that’s just ~my~ house I’m imagining. In any case, if you’re looking for a couch to puddle up on or a spare popsicle for dinner feel free to stop by.

3-miles Outside

Jamaica North Trail (first legit trip with N)

15-miles Outside

MoPac East Bike Trail - My First Summer Ride

 

For The Picking

First Ripe Strawberry, 2012

With the mild weather the garden seems to have burst open with ripe fruit and vegetables. This was the first ripe strawberry the urban wildlife left behind for small human consumption. N was thrilled. Thrilled, I tell you. Thrilled.

When I lived in Colorado the soil was too sandy, my life too chaotic to grow things. I remember turning to M and supposing out loud that most good people have gardens. If you look at the people I know, fifteen years later, I'd say it's confirmed. Most good people have gardens, or wish they did.

We dropped the last of the seeds in the ground this weekend. Dill, cilantro, basil, carrots, cucumbers. The tomatoes get starts rather than seeds. We like tomatoes. We like tomatoes a lot.

Rolling Drop Off

Prescott Family Bike To School Day, 2012

Adaptation

I wake sometimes before my alarm and lay in bed. This time of year the mornings are cold and the day warms gently. We sleep with the windows open. I lay there with cold bedsheets on all sides and the pungent smell of wet grass hanging in the air. I stare at the ceiling and listen to the harsh, clattering noise from the birds outside. The squawks and calls drown out any street traffic. 

The noise is deliberate. A complicated language. One I don't speak. I like to lay in bed just to listen. Each conversation with its distinct tones. I'll venture a guess occasionally that they're cooing over babies, arguing over position, or just moaning with loneliness out there. 

My niece spoke bullfrog once. She was an infant, swaddled in her parent's arms, on the dock outside their cabin. The tall grass along the lake shore full of croaking bullfrogs. She heard the bullfrog conversation taking place and didn't hesitate before joining in. Her parents tuned their ears to the shoreline and followed suit. 

I woke up this morning before the alarm and I fell in love with this peculiar, and expansive world. The complicated way we reach out to each other, the ways express ourselves. Even the empty spaces, the quiet morning, filled with chatter of one sort or another. A noisy, sometimes harsh, conversation about our living.

Morning Pose

"The heart does not age, it is the flesh that wrinkles."    
- Carla Zarebska