Our pool is finally open! After a number of delays and issues, the new liner arrived and went in, so we were splashing in the water by Saturday. Of all the summers, it had to be the summer of 2020 that had such a rocky and lengthy road to such a simple thing that has always gone smoothly and without incident. You had us to thank for all the sunny and hot weather we’ve had so much of lately, and you will have us to thank for the next thirty days of rain that will no doubt fall now that the pool is operating. On with the recap!

Speaking of pools, here’s a glimpse of another one from a long time ago. 

These #TinyThreads surfaced again. 

This year’s birthday wish list, because no matter what 2020 may bring next, unless it’s my death I will be having another birthday nearer the end of the month. 

The underwear-clad beauty of Ben Cohen. 

Henry Cavill flexes his nerd muscles.

Presenting the Rose-of-Sharon. 

The last moments of July.

August enters.

A Sunday morning for the soul. 

A gratuitous Sunday night scene by Luke Evans.

Hunks of the Day included Josh Rimer, Gabe Kapler, Avery Wilson, Paul Abrahamian, Frederick Ballentine, Alden Ehrenreich and Karl Schmid.

It’s the stillness of early Sunday I think I like most. 

All the wild and crazy Saturday nights I’ve had, all the riotous and gloriously-anticipatory Friday evenings – they never seem to last. The memory is of the Sunday morning when no one else is up, and the world winks at you and you alone, and it’s a secret covenant between just the two of you. 

I do better than most people at being alone. 

That kind of silence and stillness makes most of the people I know uneasy and uncomfortable. They turn to their phones to see who might be up online. They scroll through the texts and fire off a volley of greetings for some interaction. They rummage through kitchen drawers and cupboards and coffeemakers in the thinly-veiled hope that someone else in the house might wake and join them for talking, for distraction, for noise. 

I find solace in solitude. 

It’s always been that way. 

Such Sunday mornings bring a gentle smile to my face, the kind of smile that certain yoga instructors make a part of their practice, a smile that some Buddhist monks carry with them as their resting face – a smile I’ve tried to elicit without force during my meditations, and a smile that has thus far eluded me then. On certain summer mornings, however, I find that smile, and it starts the day. 

If it’s early enough, the perfume of the angels’ trumpet sometimes lingers from the night before, hanging in the thick humid air with potent force. Soon a pair of hummingbirds will flutter by, darting into the salvia and begonia, then flitting away in their magical form.

I let out the sigh of a Sunday beginning again, the sigh of starting over. The happy sigh of summer rebooting.  

Summer’s final full month enters to scattered applause. In this weirdly wild year, we look warily at what may be on the horizon, and hope for the best, or at least something simply not diabolical. A world on edge continues on edge, but the summer lends it a different shimmer. 

The month of my birth has always been a happy one, but tinged with a bit of ambivalence. The first flush of June is the space of celebration and the glorious return of summer. The heat and light-filled month of July signifies vacations and a sense of never-ending sunny days. August is different. 

It starts wth days like high summer – not much different from the July that came just yesterday. About halfway through the month, though, something changes. A coolness seeps into the nights. The gardens, having gone non-stop with all this warm sunny weather, take the moment to take a breath, the ferns starting their shriveling and browning that constant water will only slow, never reverse. You can’t go back when it comes to summer, only forward. 

There is still more sun yet to come, still more heat to annoy and bear. Most of September is summer too, and this year we need to make the most of it. I’m slowing the days in the only way I know – marking and making a moment at least once a day, even if they’re not to be remembered. The act is enough, the ritual is its own comfort. 

August, welcome. 

It wasn’t the best of times, it wasn’t the worst of times – these are merely, well, the times. July is typically more aligned with a happier ebullience, but this is a strange year which sees us at home more than ever and ticking off days filled with home officing and air-conditioned ennui. (I’m making ‘home officing’ a verb to describe working from home because I’m so tired of saying the phrase ‘working from home’ at this point.)

Here, then, lies the last of July. Vacations of the past come floating through the mind, when the scent of privet rides the breezes of Provincetown or the salty sea air of Ogunquit rolls in with the tide. If there are storms they pass quickly, the water dripping through the sun, the relief momentary before the heat returns, and the humidity creeps back up. Summer at its best and worst at once. 

It doesn’t quite feel like we’ve had it properly, suspended in the stresses and new reality of a pandemic and all this social isolation. That’s just how things are now, and how they may be for some time. August beckons… and still the privet blooms.

Most of the people in my world would happily watch Henry Cavill assemble a computer, and this post, with its poor-quality photos, is proof of this. You’re here for a reason. Here are some naked Henry Cavill photos in the event that you want a better look at the goods. PS – Mr. Cavill also makes some sexy appearances here and here and here. You just can’t get enough. 

It’s red alert time: there is less than one month until my birthday. Sound the alarm. All hands on deck. Coordinate those Amazon orders so we don’t have a duplicate of colognes like we did several Christmases ago. Better yet, go outside of the box and just get me any underwear from Tom Ford in size small (they run big). If you’re looking for a guaranteed grand-slam, here are several other offers with links where to get them in timely fashion.

Creed’s ‘Royal Oud’ is absolutely exquisite, and it’s got the richness and smokiness to see if out of summer, which is where my birthday is so dangerously situated. In many ways it was always the last safe celebration of summer. Labor Day was too late. (Helpful shopping hint: Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus will sometimes have big single-item sales that extend to their fragrances – these are a steal for cologne, which rarely goes on sale.)

As mentioned many times in this space, Tom Ford can do no wrong. Here are some of my favorite underwear selections – I’ll give you several choices so as to prevent overlap, and even if there is some, that’s fine. There’s always room for an extra pair of underwear. Option one, option two, option three, option four, and option five.

I’m currently inspired by John Sargent Singer and his work with Thomas Keller; the former was friends with Henry James, leading me into this gorgeous cologne, ‘Portrait of a Lady’ which I’ve been resisting for a couple of years, thought it’s been haunting me ever since I first sniffed it in Boston. Fragrance and literature: a match made in heaven. (Again, look into whether Saks Fifth Avenue or Bergdorf Goodman has a sale.)

If you’re still in doubt, there’s always Amazon. 

The temperature is scheduled to hit 98 degrees today because we still don’t have a working pool, and you have Andy and I to thank for all the wonderful weather we’ve had of late. Should our pool ever open again, prepare for the deluge of wet weather, if not downright snow. On with the recap because I’m actually starting to get annoyed now; even meditation has its limits. 

Ghosts of guest books past.

The pretty plumcot.

When in doubt, default to Tom Ford‘s words of wisdom.

Phloxy.

Andy and I met twenty years ago. 

Two decades of A&A.

Reaping the beginning of the harvest.

Give me joy, my boy!

Silent Saturday blooms.

An almost unhappy ending. 

Taylor Swift’s new album ‘Folklore’ is fucking phenomenal. 

Twice Upon A Watercolor.

23 minutes and counting.

Remembering and honoring a friend.

Hunks of the Day included Duncan Rock, Colin Cowie, Bubba Wallace, and Tyler Cameron.

It was at a cast party for one of the summer productions of the Ogunquit Playhouse where we first met Eric and Lonnie in person. We became instant friends, and they were gracious enough to fold us into their friendship circle with ease and assurance, as if we’d been friends all our lives. That evening we promised to get in touch whenever we found ourselves in Maine, and through the years our friendship deepened.

Eric had been the first to reach out over FaceBook, and in person he was just as gregarious and charming as his online posts had been. Quick to engage and laugh, his smile was a wonder to behold. He could summon it with just his eyes, even before the world went hidden behind our masks, or he could use his whole face to widen it and encompass all the joy of the word in one single look. It could be mischievous and cunning when he was cutting with his wit, or quiet and somber when contemplative with the weight of the world. Above all else it was kind and generous, gathering in his loved ones as if in one constant, continuous embrace.

He and Lonnie made one of those couples who become an entity of themselves. It was always Eric and Lonnie, or Lonnie and Eric – the best kind of love and companionship when two people become gorgeously intertwined for all time. We never knew them apart from each other – there was never a time when they weren’t in love.

We were lucky to meet up with them for dinners and lunches in Ogunquit when we were in town. They added to the charm and magic of our favorite beautiful place by the sea, lending the rich resonance of friendship that makes travel even more enjoyable and enriching. My Mom joined us all for a lunch, and she was instantly smitten with them as well. They took to her immediately, and it was a lesson for me in how being open and welcoming to people is its own form of kindness, something I’d never really considered in my socially-introverted world.

They were sweet enough to invite us to their wedding at their home in Grey, and it remains one of the most touching wedding ceremonies we’ve ever attended. On a glorious summer day they stood in their beautiful backyard beside an abundance of flowering prettiness, exchanged their vows, and brought their friends and family together – all of us meeting new friends and falling under the spell of Eric and Lonnie and their uncanny way of making everyone feel like part of one big family. They cultivated friends like Eric cultivated his magnificent gardens – each of us some special daylily or dahlia in their eyes. It was a testament to their own goodness that everyone we met that day was filled with a kindness and grace that I often find missing in our daily brushes with humanity.

That trip also offered us a chance to stay in nearby Portland for the first time, a place that Lonnie and Eric had found so enchanting, a feeling we would discover on our own. We would return a year or two later, meeting up with them for dinner and drinks, and as another summer burned itself into the past we promised to meet up again in Ogunquit.

We never made it there to see them again. Eric was diagnosed with cancer, and I followed his difficult journey from a distance. He managed to throw it off the first time, but another bout ended up taking him. He and Lonnie were able to make one last trip to Mexico, doing what they loved most, and I was always happy to think of that.

His obituary expresses it best: “Eric Stoddard Baxter completed his life circle.” He did indeed, and what a wonderfully full and rich life it was. Now, my thoughts turn to Lonnie, who keeps Eric’s spirit and memory alive in all that he does. Another friend gone from this earth, but not distant from our hearts.