You may be noticing a slight change in our posting schedule right about now. Last year when I came back from my first summer sabbatical, I took off two days – Tuesday and Wednesday – in the middle of the work week. But those days are tough enough, why should I make anyone suffer more by denying you fresh content and entries when this is my joy as well? That means we are returning to our original daily programming, with a slight twist.
Given that I have more job responsibilities, and that by the time I get home I’m pretty much spent (especially on those nights when I have to cook myself dinner – God how I wish Andy could work his culinary magic with fish) I am not going to promise long-winded or exceptionally meaningful words, but rather punchy, smaller entries that are just as good as hanging out with me over a glass of wine. (Minus all the nasty judgment of your clothing!) But I still like the idea of a Monday where the main posting may be spent ruminating over what came before, so we’re going to keep the Monday recap for the start of the week, then return a bit later in the day for the whole thing to start up again. This first one is going to be shorter, since we only just returned on Thursday and how much can you expect to happen in a weekend? Stick with me, kid, and I’ll show you.
Summer is traditionally the time when the guys and gals get all naked. Since this website went dark during that sunny season, however, we lost a look at some of the Speedos that were donned. Let’s do a little retroactive Speedo search and see who got in (and out of) their banana hammocks. (And a few who didn’t deign to show off their bulge but were too cute not to include.)
First up is Nyle DiMarco, who has made a few splashes here in his almost-altogether. He gets his cocktail on by the sea in these shots, recalling the glory that is summer.
Next is a pair of hunks who merge two of my favorite passions: dancing and nature. Check out Bear Grylls and Derek Hough in one of Bear’s underwear adventures. They made it through the wilderness.
Getting his splash on is Matthew Wilkas, because when you’re that hot you need to find ways to cool down.
Sometimes naked arms are enough when the rest of you is as super as Henry Cavill. And if you’re Ben Cohen sometimes all you have to do is smile.
Say what you may about Cynthia Rowley, she knows how to design office supplies. She provides the pizzazz that adds some sparkle to my office space. A bright spot of color in a sea of gray.
This summer, I had a dream about Madonna. As much as I love her, this was maybe only my third or fourth actual dream about her. In it, we were finding our way through an old warehouse. Boxes of all my Madonna memorabilia were stacked all around, but they were rotting. A pile of pulpy mush was topped with her ‘Sex’ book: the aluminum covers and spiral binding the only things that remained intact from that cantankerous career period that remained such a favorite with die-hard fans like myself. She was walking through barely glancing at my collection, mostly because she was with her family, and I felt like I was encroaching. Yet somehow she didn’t mind my following along.
She spoke quietly to her children, in a gentle fashion slightly at odds with the brash persona she so often peddles in public life and artistic projects. She also spoke a bit to me, and I tried to sound like a human being in spite of my star-struck awe, while still conveying how much of a devoted lifelong fan I was. Friends have asked me what I would even say to her if I had the chance to meet her, and I still have no idea. It’s so far from the realm of possibility, I never bothered to entertain such a dream. Here, in an actual dream, I must have said something she liked, because she kept speaking to me as we walked through a dirty warehouse littered with the products of her artistic past. It made me giddy to realize it was my past as well, and somehow, after all these years, I could see that we were intertwined, in the way that her artistic output intertwined with all of her fans. We shared something that way. Isn’t that the purpose of art?
Good things come in small packages. Some might disagree, but there’s something to that adage. That’s also going to be the guiding force for some upcoming posts, and a new feature that will hopefully be a regular one (famous last words). In my time off, I did some website-soul-searching. Most of the sites that I’ve visited over the past few months (there haven’t been that many) feature posts that are punchy, quick, and far less substantial than the 1000 word essays I tend to put up here. My rambling knows no character limits. That’s all well and good for a creative outlet, but it does take some work and effort and time. As my home and career responsibilities increase (as they tend to do as we get older) I find myself less able to keep up the pace I once had. There’s also no one forcing my hand, so I can do what I want to do on this site. (Check the damn name.) That said, silly filler and fanciful fluff is on the way, darlings! Watch for the new ‘Tiny Threads: An Insignificant Series’ feature for all the fierce frivolity.
He stood at the edge of the yard, rather a long distance away. Arms crossed in front of him, his eyes squinting into the high sun of noon, he seemed determined. Sometimes, even on sunny summer days, the hardest thing to be is a boy. As the initial minutes of our visit wore on, he got closer to the house, until he was peering in, watching us and waiting for the right moment to enter.
The last time I’d seen Julian he was barely able to walk, much less speak. Now he was a boy, walking and talking and, as he would show us later, mastering the ukulele. His Mom is one of my closest friends, whom I’ve known since I can remember, having met her at Suzie’s birthday parties in the Junes of our childhood. There’s a bond that a childhood friendship carries that is like no other, and in many ways it is as unbreakable as the bonds of family. Sometimes more. As her son Julian walked in and sheepishly said hello, I was flooded with memory, happiness and warmth.
His younger brother Cameron hid behind Mommy for a while, with a shy but irrepressible smile across his face. He would break into giggles periodically and I hoped his happiness would last. I think that should be the goal of all the world: keeping that childhood happiness for as long as possible. The lucky ones among us never lose it. Most of us do at some point, then spend the rest of our lives trying to get it back, with varying degrees of success. Or maybe I’m just conflating happiness with innocence. They are both too often fleeting, as was our visit to Connecticut.
The days were idyllic. It was hot and sunny – perfect for some time in and beside the pool. The house lent itself to easy relaxation, with its large windows and airy layout. Still new enough to be uncluttered, and lived-in enough to be comfortable, it was the perfect backdrop to a reunion with friends we hadn’t seen in far too long. On our way in, a swath of evening primrose lifted their bright canary faces next to the brick walkway. Nearer the front door, a clump of shasta daisies was at the height of its bloom, as if welcoming us with its greatest finery. Behind them, waves of shrubs softened the long lines of the house. Everything whispered ‘home’ and erased the recent bout of traffic we had to endure to get there. More than an oasis, this was a very real realm of respite, and as the door closed behind us, so did the troubles of the world.
We enjoyed our brief time there immensely; it was exactly what Andy and I needed to start the summer off, and I’m hopeful we left a little something behind too (besides the proliferation of feathers that remains the tell-tale sign of a visit). We’d been warned that Julian would ask a million questions, but the inquisitive nature of children was never an annoyance to me. Quite the contrary: seeing that insatiable curiosity, when one question leads to another, as if he already understood that the process of getting to knowledge was its own fulfilling journey, was a balm on my own soul, a reminder of another kid who had nothing but questions and a world unwilling to be bothered.
As for his fabulous younger brother Cameron, there were other happy reminders of my childhood mirrored in him. He liked feathers and sequins and all sorts of fancy items that lend magic to an unadorned summer day. He liked dressing up and expressing himself in costume and theatrics. He was on the verge of being exactly who he was meant to be, and yet also on the verge of drawing back into himself.
No matter what the rest of their lives brought, they had this summer – the first time in their pool, the first time in those pink pumps, and the first time we got to visit them. I know a thing or two about brothers, especially brothers who are dramatically different in so many ways. Brotherly love is almost unbreakable, but it doesn’t happen without tensions and traumas. Still, it’s best to dwell on days like this, when your brother is your best friend.
No one else will go through the exact same things you go through.
No one else in the world will experience the exact same basic upbringing, remember the same house, the same worries, the same resentments, the same triumphs, the same love.
I hope they hold onto that above all else. Not everyone does.
By the time we were reluctantly ready to leave, Julian was willing to sing us a song. It encapsulated our time there, and in many ways our entire summer.
No other plant exudes quite the same feel of freshness and bright greenery than the fern. The genus is so expansive and diverse that almost every shade of green is found within it, as well as every texture and size. From the smallest and daintiest button fern to the grandest tree fern, the fern world is vast and varied. Yet across the board, each fern carries a certain old-world elegance and refinement that belies its hardier qualities.
Such a happy correlation comes with Tom Ford’s newest Private Blend pair: Fougere D’Ardent and Fougere Platine. The ‘fougere’ part is from the French word for fern, which is fitting for these verdant fragrances, which also have notes recalling traditional old-world barber-shops and the like. To my admittedly-failing memory, Ford has never done a classic gentlemen fragrance. I suppose an argument could be made that his first self-titled mainstream cologne could be counted as such, and I’ve long maintained that the original does veer into traditional Old Spice territory, and another mainstream offering, ‘Grey Vetiver’, was true to its timeless namesake. Most of his Private Blends, however, have been (more or less delightfully) all over the map. ‘Azure Lime’ was one that came closest to a typical gentleman’s cologne, with its fresh citrus take that veered into the masculine side of his Neroli Portofino line.
His recent Vert series touched on a green forest; my favorite of the lot, Vert D’Encens, is a veritable walk through a pine grove on a warm autumn day. Heavenly. Fougere D’Ardent brings that ferny woodiness and couples it with a barber shop finesse, merging into a refined delight perfect for seasonal transitions.
It’s something one’s grandfather might wear if he were especially jaunty and far ahead of his time. A classic with a bold flare, which is, when you consider most classics, what intrinsically makes something a classic. Containing components of some of the earliest gentlemen colognes, still used today as proof of their everlasting timelessness, this fougere fragrance is a clarion of elegance and sophistication.
Here’s the official description:
Fouere d’Argent is a bold reimagining of the classic fougere, a structure that traditionally revolves around lavender, oakmoss, and coumarin. With oakmoss no longer available, Tom Ford has re-worked the model in a provocative manner, substituting moss with Akigalawood, a Givaudan captive derived from patchouli that has a wonderfully spicy, woodsy bitterness. What emerges from Ford’s confident handling is a scent that smells truly masculine – earthy, herbaceous, and rich, with a radiantly spiced muskiness that billows around its wearer.
Hello Fall, old nemesis and arch enemy of school-despising children. How have you been? It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it? About 9 months – the time it takes to bring a child into the world. What’s new? You always have something new. So many people think Fall is the beginning of putting things to bed. They’re only right about the beginning.
I’m not sure why we never got along.
Wait, that’s not true.
We both know exactly why we never got along, starting with the school thing. How I dreaded what you signaled, how I loathed the turn of weather, how I hated you for accompanying it all with such flare and bright foliage. You couldn’t help but show off as you were instilling so much fear and worry. And I knew our schoolyard battles weren’t the end of it. You were far too tricky.
You always started out so pretty, with your gently-nodding goldenrod and cornstalk sunsets. You cajoled and cradled, but your heart was hidden, and no one has ever told whether something is there. You seduced with your coziness, with the promise of a fire, the scent of burning leaves… the hope of the hearth, but how insidiously you turn.
You know exactly what you did.
And you did it over and over again.
You made me fall in love.
Looking back, it was just the idea of love that I loved so well, but you made it an obsession. Maybe it was the cruel licks of the first few frosts, the way they made my lungs seize up when I rushed out unaccustomed to the cold. Maybe I just wanted someone to make me warm until I could do it myself. Maybe I wasn’t quite as grown up as I pretended to be. Whatever the reason, I lived for love, and you did your best to keep it ever elusive, ever out of my reach. You let it come close a few times, and you insisted that I did my part. You just never let it be returned.
As September ticked into October, and the days were increasingly marred with storms, you kept the hope dangling before me. Those golden days, when the sun still sparked joy, when you could believe that some shred of summer might linger a little longer than before, were always the cruelest, in retrospect. Or maybe they weren’t. The last full month of your season may hold that distinction.
Even the name ‘November’, with its vicious ‘V’ and the way it begins irrefutably with a declarative ‘No’ – so harsh, so unyielding, so absent of joy… we should know then that it won’t end well.
Oh Fall, ruthless masked marauder, taker and breaker of hearts, why should you be so wicked? Why leave such a trail of wreckage in your wake? Why make me make such a mess? Your indiscriminate nature does nothing to appease the pain. More devastation shall surely follow. We haven’t even begun to approach December, when the holidays might, if they’re being gracious, afford a bit of relief. We hang our hopes on that and plan accordingly.
In the meantime, we hope to find some balm of beauty to ease the sadness of seeing those rotting apples left for dead beneath their trees, the ghoulish melting and eventual molding of a pumpkin massacred for its jack-o-lantern purpose. The crunch of desiccated brown leaves on the sidewalk coupled with the desolate branches of the hands that once carried and cared for them – this is the callous nature of what you are. This is the sorrow that you have reaped.
They never struck me as all that striking until I grew one in my backyard. The banana tree, those tropical broad-leafed potted statement plants that some people grew in gardens or large pots on the patio, had always eluded my covetous glance. They felt like a tropical cliche, and destined for disappointment. Summers in upstate New York are not usually long enough for them to bear fruit, and the complicated burying process for the hardy varieties to survive the winters without rotting always felt too involved. For all those reasons, I never bothered with the banana.
But at the start of the very late planting season, there was a little banana plant at Troy’s Landscaping that called my name. It was just starting to leaf out, and it was so small and cute, and the foliage so handsome, I picked it up and nestled it into a relatively large pot in the backyard. The long and slow start to spring and warm weather meant that the little banana plant didn’t do much for a number of weeks. I looked at it without anguish or extreme disappointment – it was alive, and ever so slowly would unfurl a new leaf, but there were other things coming into bloom and taking off much faster. These took my attention while the banana, so small in its enormous pot, seemed to be merely in survival mode. My gardening style has been to abide the survivors, but thrill at the thrivers. It’s always been that way, and until a survivor proves that it can thrive, I’m the mean mommy with the stern gaze and unforgiving countenance. Worse, I tend to ignore the plight of those just getting by. Such was the case with this banana plant. Swimming in the gigantic pot – I thought they were supposed to get oh-so-big? – it looked lost, and barely required any water. All that moist soil with so few roots was a recipe for disaster, and for a while I was sure it would simply rot away before making the slightest tropical impression. As an angel’s trumpet plant took off and soared with the arrival of warmer weather, the little banana plant seemed to tremble in the slightest breeze. I pushed it off to the side, literally. Now and then I would notice a new leaf slowly emerging, the green underside wrapped tightly in an upward-pointing spiral was tinged with gray and the early veining of maroon. It was pretty enough, but I doubted it would ever put on a show. I favor the plants that put on shows.
A flowering maple shot skyward, to and beyond our canopy, and bloomed with an exquisite blossom of fiery red and yellow markings. A replanted lace-cap hydrangea that was an offshoot of an older plant came into its own thanks to a heavy helping of manure the year before. It bloomed extravagantly and courted bees and butterflies the entire time. A little line of Japanese painted ferns had happily appeared in a bare spot kept moist by the spring rain, taking quick hold once I took over the watering when the sky stopped. All the while, the banana slowly worked its way up and out. By the time the really hot weather arrived, I took new notice of it.
Watching a specific plant closely, one doesn’t always see or appreciate what is actually happening. One misses the roots and everything going on underneath the soil. One misses the gradual growth of leaves overall when focused too closely on height. When I had given up on such a close daily inspection, the banana surreptitiously made its advance. In the same manner that such visible changes only came into view after I returned from a vacation or time spent away, I noticed the banana anew. Suddenly it came into its own, filling its pot in pleasing proportions and rising to gain the glory of the sun.
In its growing season, and the right conditions, it is said that the banana tree will unfurl one large leaf a week. I like the marking of time that way, especially in the summer. Once we clicked into that tropical heat and humidity, the leaves got on schedule, one large magnificent work of art after the other. Some arched, some tore and fluttered in the summer storms, and some simply draped in gorgeous fashion, backlit brilliantly by the hot sun or basking happily in a warm rain.
And so the summer passed, in the ticking and unfurling of the banana leaves. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to mark the time. Next year I’ll be going totally bananas, because when a survivor becomes a thriver, I become a bit obsessed.
1. (especially as a direction) in a moderately slow tempo.
noun
2. a movement or composition marked to be played andante.
Origin of andante: 1735- < Italian:literally,walking,presentparticiple of andare to walk, go; etymologydisputed,butoftenalleged: < VulgarLatin*ambitare,derivative of Latinambituscircularmotion,roundaboutjourney; perhaps,alternatively,earlyLatinborrowing < Gaulish*and,akin to Latinpandere to spread(hence,stride);comparepassusstep,pace(actionnoun*pand-tu-), equivalent to OldIrishfootprint,track
TAKE IT EASY WITH ME PLEASE
TOUCH ME GENTLY, LIKE A SUMMER EVENING BREEZE
TAKE YOUR TIME, MAKE IT SLOW
ANDANTE ANDANTE, AND JUST LET THE FEELING GROW…
Andante, Andante indeed. August sped along quicker than I’d like, so I made a determined effort to slow things down. Summer is usually the time when I’ll delve into a literary classic. I still remember the seasons I trudged through ‘David Copperfield’ and ‘Treasure Island’ and ‘Moby Dick’, and after finishing ‘The Summer that Melted Everything‘ and ‘Less’, I started ‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’.
Suzie and I made a semi-annual summer pilgrimage to Chatham for a performance of ‘The Wedding Singer’ at the Mac-Haydn Theatre, and Andy and I went back for their production of ‘Annie’. Following the curving roads rife with full green foliage and waving fields of corn always eases the mind.
One of my favorite summer traditions, our annual BroSox Adventure, typically held in early June when the blush is newly on the rose, got scheduled much later in the season, when the rose is all but off the stem and only the prickly reminders remain. Skip and I made another set of riotous memories, from tracking down a possibly-non-existent serial killer, rummaging through garbage, to eating chicken wings and drinking way too much whiskey and gin. That was just the first day and a half. Right before the game started, the sky opened up and demolished a day of high heat and unbearable humidity with a quick downpour. We’d actually cut a couple of walks short because it was so sticky and oppressive, and we sat at Hojoku nursing a Suntory whiskey cocktail while ‘The Wizard of Oz’ played on a screen behind us (last year it was ‘The Karate Kid’).
As if on cue, the rain stopped right before the game began, and as we took our seats a cool breeze blew into Fenway Park. It whispered thrillingly of fall and closed out the evening in a zone of comfort. An excess of fun, accented with moments of contemplation made for a banner Red Sox weekend, and we continued our run as good luck charms, as they handily beat the Rays 5-2.
On the event of turning 43, I have one thing to say: two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it. Andy and I took a day trip to Manchester, Vermont ~ a favorite childhood haunt, where we enjoyed some shopping and a fine dinner (even if the flies refused to let us eat in peace).
By the end of the month, I’d returned to finishing my current project, slated for a late fall release. I’d taken much of the summer off, but when the nights started cooling down, and I figured out that kerosene was a much better way to burn things up than charcoal lighter fluid, I was back on track. Stay tuned for that explosive release in a couple of months…
MAKE YOUR FINGERS SOFT AND LIGHT
LET YOUR BODY BE THE VELVET OF THE NIGHT
TOUCH MY SOUL, YOU KNOW HOW
ANDANTE ANDANTE, GO SLOWLY WITH ME NOW.
We tend to forget how a flaming September is still mostly summer, throwing away all the post-Labor Day moments when we really should be celebrating the season as long as possible. Our Ogunquit trip was an example of this, as we changed things up by waiting until September to go, which is how it went down that very first visit almost twenty years ago.
Mostly though, with Andy’s health issues and my own advancing age (hello 43!) we kept it relatively quiet this summer, and that was ok. When the world goes to shit, and chaos is the order of the day, the best thing to do is enjoy a quiet summer with the people who mean the most to you.
I’M YOUR MUSIC, I’M YOUR SONG
PLAY ME TIME AND TIME AGAIN, MAKE ME STRONG
MAKE ME SING, MAKE ME SOUND
ANDANTE ANDANTE, TREAD LIGHTLY ON MY GROUND
ANDANTE ANDANTE, OH PLEASE DON’T LET ME DOWN.
On the news, oppression fueled by racism and hatred made daily marks on our lives. Surrounded by non-stop reports of such chaos and cruelty, where children and babies were being locked in cages without human contact, it was difficult to enjoy the sunny season. I thought back to other troubling times in our world’s history when dark forces stole power and fooled great swaths of people, and I remembered the little pockets of light and goodness and humanity that managed to survive, secret and safe and biding their time until the world got better. I want this space to be a refuge of sorts for anyone who needs to escape. I want this to be one of those pockets of warmth and reassurance when the outside world is crumbling and crashing around us. Most of all, I want us to unite here, in the land of frivolity and fun, to escape the troubles and pressures of life, and to find a moment of peace. If the summer was any indication, those moments are becoming fewer and further apart. If we are to make it through the fall and winter, we need a home base ~ a place of love and safety and acceptance. I can’t do it all alone, but I can do my best to make this place pretty and welcoming and witty enough to entertain the most jaded among us. Every once in a while I’ll rely on someone else to add to the party (thank you Skip and Suzie for the future posts you may not even know you are going to write here) and together we’ll make it through the wilderness. Somehow, we’ll make it through.
THERE’S A SHIMMER IN YOUR EYES,
LIKE THE FEELING OF A THOUSAND BUTTERFLIES
PLEASE DON’T TALK, GO ON PLAY
ANDANTE ANDANTE, AND WATCH ME FLOAT AWAY
As for the finals days of a summer that started out with such hope, I was left with a melancholy feeling, haunted by stories of a mother bear hunted down by two men and slaughtered while her bear cubs shrieked in terror, or the orca who kept pushing her dead calf to the surface for days, lost in mourning and drowning in her sorrow, and I wondered at the sadness of life.
A sour note to end the summer and start the fall, perhaps, but it’s a note of truth, and one that will hopefully inspire you to be the best person you can be. God knows I will try. Thanks for coming back to see how it all plays out.
Sometimes I lay Under the moon
And thank God I’m breathing
Then I pray
Don’t take me soon
‘Cause I am here for a reason
Sometimes in my tears I drown
But I never let it get me down So when negativity surrounds
I know some day it’ll all turn around because…
All my life I’ve been waiting for
I’ve been praying for
For the people to say
That we don’t wanna fight no more
There will be no more wars And our children will play
Our summer party got a fresh spin, and a much-needed revamp in the form of simpler weekends and smaller gatherings for friends whom we hadn’t seen in years. Such intimate get-togethers make for more quality time with the people we love best. Looking back, much of these past few months was about re-connecting with people from the past – Missy and Joe, Anu, Tommy and Janet – these weren’t just friends, they were the friends who had become family to us over the years.
Sitting there around the table, I was instantly transported back two decades, when we’d be sitting around a smaller and dingier table, but no less happy or joyous because of it. Back then, we had all the fun of each other’s company coupled with the hope of whatever futures we would make for ourselves. In the last few years, life has battered us all, and we were in very different places than we were when I used to visit College Avenue in Ithaca. So much had changed, but so much of who we were remained. It was bittersweet – a comfort coupled with a reminder of the relentlessness of time. More than anything else, it reminded me of what was good in this world. I miss that, just being around the people who have always brought such joy into our lives. After the flurry of weddings and births, I worry that only the sorrowful stuff remains. But there are kids to carry on the next cycle, and as they splashed in the pool and ran through the house I realized that I was lucky enough to know some of the brightest hopes for the future. Now that the children are getting older and more self-sufficient, their parents, perhaps, are feeling a first sigh of relief in a long time. A little bit of breathing room. Also, a glimpse of a time when they’re no longer counted on to be there for every single moment, which I imagine is as daunting as it is thrilling. Entering our forties, we all felt a little more weighed down by the world, yet it was impossible to experience anything but elation when we came together. I held onto that for the weekend, and for the summer. There will be dreary fall and winter days when things seem dark and even doomed, but I will keep this summer memory safe within my heart for precisely such days.
One day this all will change
Treat people the same
Stop with the violence
Down with the hate
All my life I’ve been waiting for
I’ve been praying for
For the people to say
That we don’t wanna fight no more
There will be no more wars
And our children will play
The question was always asked and answered on the first day back to school. A bittersweet query, really, one that I kind of dreaded because it meant that summer was truly over, relegated to the dim corridor of Memory, perhaps resigned to the long trudge of Forgotten. Neither was particularly appealing for a kid suddenly strapped to the confines of school again. Even as an adult, I feel the dreaded sting of back-to-school specials and the parade of school supplies on sale at this time of the year. Still, the question begs to be answered: what did you do over summer vacation? Here, in a nutshell (or blog post or three), is how mine unfolded.
It began in fitting form on Cape Cod, with a graduation party at JoAnn’s. Tressie was celebrating her successful completion of her degree, and family and friends gathered at the Mermaid on Shore Road cottage. Seeing the future of our planet in such capable hands gave me momentary hope in a world otherwise-gone-mad. I returned home just in time to make it to my niece Emi’s dance recital. We arrived precisely on time for the start, then sat through the 57 songs that came before her performance. At least I got out of the Cape early enough to avoid all summer traffic. (Hint: there’s none at 5:30 AM.)
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
More wee ones were in our summer plans, as Andy and I headed to Missy and Joe’s new house; their sons Julian and Cameron were waiting for us as we arrived on a hot sunny day. We hadn’t seen them for a few years – the longest stretch of not seeing such close friends – but they are finally settling into a fabulous new home and hosted us for a lovely visit in late June. The heat was high, the pool was open, and an idyllic weekend was at hand. Doug and Julio joined us for dinner, the Paloma coolers were flowing, and everything came together perfectly the way it does only a few times a year. Cameron and Julian were the highlight of our visit – two young boys growing up and giving me more hope for the future. Julian gave us the best parting gift there is: a song. I’ve selected our Fall Return theme song based on his version of ‘Count on Me’ by Bruno Mars.
IF YOU’RE TOSSING AND YOU’RE TURNING AND YOU JUST CAN’T FALL ASLEEP
I’LL SING A SONG BESIDE YOU
AND IF YOU EVER FORGET HOW MUCH YOU REALLY MEAN TO ME
EVERYDAY I WILL REMIND YOU
FIND OUT WHAT WE’RE MADE OF WHEN WE ARE CALLED TO HELP OUR FRIENDS IN NEED
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
In July, near our 18thanniversary, Andy and I made a weekend trip to Boston, where we saw the hot mess that was/is ‘Moulin Rouge’. It was a blast, though there was still much tinkering going on when we saw it. We sat close to the director, who was taking copious notes, so maybe they’ve made it hotter and less messy than when we saw it. It’s a spectacle, to be sure, and worth a look-see, but only if you’ve reconciled yourself to flash and fluff. That’s the mainstay of my life, so I may have to see it again.
JoAnn visited us for a weekend, and she brought another wonderful denizen of the Cape with her. Cheryl taught us how to make lumpia, and we had such a fun time we are already eyeing her next trip up for a lesson on the secrets of mahjong. The circle of friendship widens; the ripples of love cross and rebound. We are always better for it.
YOU’LL ALWAYS HAVE MY SHOULDER WHEN YOU CRY
I’LL NEVER LET GO, NEVER SAY GOODBYE
YOU KNOW YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
Near the end of July, a series of storms ripped through the area – one of which had hail the size of quarters falling dangerously from the sky. One ripped a small hole in our backyard canopy -“ countless others ruined the up-until-then-pristine foliage of the garden plants. It tattered everything for the rest of the season. Plants are surprisingly resilient, but they don’t mend torn or hole-filled leaves. I took a video of the ice splashing into the pool, battering our unicorn float in dramatic fashion. Summer came with its own thrills and dangers, and it wasn’t nearly done yet…
