Summer Notes

Sunrise over the pond.

It has been a time of littles, of sunrise walks, goslings on the pond, spiderweb-caught dew: of endings - the end of school, the end of the 6 a.m. alarm clock - and beginnings: the beginning of summer, the first spinach and lettuce from the garden, the first succulent asparagus spears, the first days of bicycling in the early morning before the day's heat builds and again in the evening when it begins to wane.

It has been a time of bigs - my youngest daughter's wedding, the announcement of another grandchild due in September, my own retirement after eight years at the local elementary school and thirty-odd years in various school systems, too-short visits from loved ones who make the trip east from the Oregon coast just once every few years.

There have been days of drought and hot humid afternoons that suggest storms that seldom materialize. Over other parts of the country thunderheads pile up, bruised and purple, collide and burst, bringing high winds and hail and torrential downpours, and thunder that does not stop, lightning that sets fires. Here we must water our gardens and hope they produce. My little patio garden is thriving but the farm garden has wilted under days of punishing heat.

I am dazed and tired and ready for summer with its somnolent days and fan-brushed nights. I will let the birds wake me far earlier than any alarm clock ever did but much more naturally, let the fact that I'm retired sink in, let others make plans while I nap in the long afternoons, and come here to read up on all of you now and then.