The plan was to leave the mids dancing on my screen for the week. I wasn’t going to post today or tomorrow or all week and if I have any self-discipline at all, might check in once a day at most. There’s a bike that needs riding and some rooms that need painting and you don’t need to know about any of that.
For this one last check in, I read today’s post at Teachers and Twits (aka Renee, whose new computer has arrived and isn’t that a wonderful thing?). She wrote something that spoke to my inner summer girl, which I read while sipping coffee and watching the sun rise over the marina, where the coming days and weeks will see the slips empty and the shrink wrap appear on those that remain, confirming the approach of winter.
I, too, am a summer girl. Over the past few years I have come to like fall, except for the dread of winter that lies just beneath its surface. This year that dread crept in in August and I almost skipped the beauty of September, my favorite month. I’m spending this last week reminding myself to live in September.
The first boy I truly loved I met at a football game in the early fall, but my favorite memories of him are from the summers that followed. The day trips to the beach, the pink teddy bear he won at the arcade, the mock argument over what her name would be, the lemonade with two straws, his vegetable garden that grew waaaaay too much zucchini, which he then made into all sorts of zucchini dishes, his homemade apple pies, the boat he built by hand and named for his mother, the maiden voyage of the Margaret Ann, the time he walked me to the door, kissed me goodnight and did cartwheels back to his car, every single Christopher Cross hit.
I’ve been looking forward to the pumpkin spice latte days, but I already miss lemonade.
How many days until June?