…Was what two women were doing Thursday as we tracked over to the station for breakfast and morning commute dropoff. There followed several signs of high summer; I suppose they are the same as the reasons why my pen has been dry. We’ve had beautiful weather and most everyone I know has enjoyed soaking up the sun and banking it against the unmentionable seasonal changes that, thankfully, are months away.
What are the signs of summer? Men in seersucker suits. Train People sipping their hot drinks and eating muffins stashed way down in their bag, appearing to feed like herons at the summer pond. Lots of sunglasses, beach togas, and bikes cruising through the platforms and sidewalks. Everyone happy to be to be outside.
True, there are moments of consternation. A gum graft here, budget problems in the nation there. Big and small things. Someone wrote in the paper last week he couldn’t stand people who were happy at everything, “like even looking at a sidewalk,” he said. I remember wondering if I should feel guilty that I once wrote about the cracks in the public sidewalk in front of my childhood home, and the happiness they could instill in bringing back some sweet memories. To each, his own?
All of which is to say that here in high summer, full of work when it is work time, and relaxing when the moment allows, as well as “catching-up-on-the-house-but-not-trying-too-hard-since-“they”-just-mess-it-up-again”, it must be OK to not have too much to say or eloquence with which to say it. It’s high summer, and we can deadhead, or write, whenever it’s right so to do.