The sudden arrival of fall weather over much of the country that less than a week ago was experiencing unusually warm weather got me to thinking about the changing seasons. Growing up my favorite season was summer. The reasons seemed obvious at the time. No school! No homework. Staying up late. The luxury of sleeping in. FREEDOM! From the last day of school until the first Tuesday after Labor Day my time was mine to do with as I liked. In June the days seemed to stretch endlessly in front of me, but by August they were roaring past at the speed of a freight train with a schedule to keep. Summer was never long enough.

    

It wasn’t just being out of doors because I was outdoors year round back then. I played in the snow in the winter and reveled in shuffling through gutters filled with piles of crunchy, colorful leaves in the fall. I was especially fond of the scent of lilacs in the spring and the tantalizing hints of summer in the air. In the fall I marched with the band at high school football games. In the winter I skied. Come spring I raced my dad’s sailboat at the small lake in a neighboring town, and I rode my bike in the dark hours of predawn delivering newpapers in all four seasons.

 

But then I joined the Peace Corps in my mid-fifties and they sent me to the South Pacific. A vast change for a Yankee from New England, but by the time I returned home, I’d become accustomed to year round summer. The woman I lived with in the South Pacific and I used to sit on her veranda in the warm dark tropical nights, weaving mats, doing homework or just chatting. It was one of my favorite times of day. Being able to go swimming in the ocean any time I pleased was another perk of the job. I loved it. And when I returned home to Maine, I discovered just how depressing the unrelenting cold and dark could get. Summer seemed shorter than ever.

 

I live in northeast Florida now, and most of my year feels like the lovely, long days of my childhood summers. The feel of the sunlight on my shoulders as I walk the beach, wading through the tumbling surf and the rush of warm summer night wind through my hair in the dark have become a way of life. The days get shorter here, but never as short as they were in Maine in mid-winter and I’ve never been happier living anywhere however beautiful some of the places I’ve lived have been. Some day I’ll probably make a trip to New England in the fall just to revel in the brilliance of the foliage. Last year I spent Christmas with my daughter in the White Mountains and we had a lovely Currier and Ives scene of gently falling snow on Christmas Day. I’ve yet to visit Washington DC during Cherry Blossom time and I know I’ll have to spend time where the lilacs grow in the spring now and then. But summer is still my favorite season of the year.

What’s your favorite season? Click on the comment button below and tell us what you love most about it.  

Although we were on an island surrounded by water and swimming was a frequent pastime, we knew we were going to have to keep a close eye on our two littlest boys. One evening, as we sat around the table chatting after supper, Philip decided that the fire bucket looked like a fantastic opportunity. When most of us weren't paying close attention...(and those that were viewed the upcoming experiment through the lens of a camera) he considered his options.  You can see the look of mischief and calculation in his eyes . . . .
 
"Hmmm... there's water in this bucket. And Mom's not looking... What happens if I just put one leg in?  Or better yet, all of me?"
  
Delighted with the result, Philip discovered that if he sat down quickly, the water would slosh up his front and into his face. The game was on, accompanied by contagious little-boy giggles. Even when he managed to tip the bucket over and land face first in wet pine needles, he was eager to get right back in once the bucket was refilled for him.

There are dozens of images of Philip that will remain in my heart and memory forever, but Philip's adventure with the water bucket is one of the best. Second only to the way he cuddled into my arms to fall asleep when I rocked him and the sound of his little voice calling "Gamma" to get my attention. I miss you, Philip. More than words can ever express.

Like most little boys, Philip loved to explore his world, play in water, climb on things and follow his big sisters around. At a year and a half, he was smart and eager to try new things. He loved balls and airplanes, his bath, Elmo, the color green and silky things to caress while he sucked his thumb to fall asleep. Before our big family vacation this summer, the last time I'd seen him he was in May, and he had only a few words in his spoken vocabulary. But at the lake in early August, he quickly learned to call me Gamma and would call out to me, then grin when he got my attention. I also enjoyed quiet times with him snuggled against my chest as I rocked him to sleep. I was looking forward to a trip to New York to visit Philip, his sisters and his Mom (my daughter) at the end of September when I got a heart-stopping phone call from my daughter, Lori.

Philip had been at the park, had been hit in the head and airlifted to the hospital unconscious. She had been at work and was on her way to the hospital when she called. I later learned that it had been an unsecured chain link gate left leaning up against a wall that toppled over and crashed down on Philip. In a heartbeat, life in our family had been dealt a blow we will never fully recover from. As I scrambled to find a flight to New York, I prayed, no begged Jesus to reach out and heal this sweet little boy. But Philip died in the dark hours of the early morning despite all efforts to save his life.

My mind screamed in protest. NOT AGAIN! Please God, not again! Seven years ago, my son's little boy Sam died of SIDS at five months of age. The reasons for these two precious children being rushed to the hospital were very different, but the vigil that followed, the prayers and pleas from parents, grandparents, sisters, friends, aunts, uncles that went unanswered as their little bodies began to fail and tests revealed there was no hope of recovery were eerily the same. It was a nightmare that just wouldn't end. We all wanted to wake up, but there was no waking up from the heartbreak and loss. The unthinkable descended on us once again.

Philip's funeral was hard. Just about the hardest thing I've ever borne save Sam's. When my husband died of cancer, I could comfort myself in my grief and loss with the knowledge that Cal was at peace after fighting a long and difficult fight. When my mother passed away, I could rationalize it with the knowledge that she had been spared the worst that Alzheimer's can inflict on its sufferers. But with Sam and Philip there were no thoughts, no words, nothing to make it easier to bear. Two beautiful little boys, at the very beginning of their lives, gone in the blink of an eye leaving their parents stunned and devastated. As a grandmother, I cried buckets for the loss of two very much loved grandsons. I will never see them grow into manhood or celebrate all the things that should have been a part of their lives. I won't have their childish artwork decorating my refrigerator, nor pictures of them growing older scattered about my house. I will never rock them to sleep again, or get sticky kisses, then eager boyish hugs. There is so much I will miss. But the hardest part of all is looking into the eyes of my own child and seeing the immeasurable pain and suffering there and knowing there is absolutely nothing I can do to make it better. I can kiss their tears, hug them tight, pray for them and listen when they need to talk. But I can never give them back the thing that they loved most. Nothing I have lived through has ever been this hard.

My sister arrived in the doorway with rivers of brilliant blue running down her face and neck and into her shirt. For some reason, she’d chosen that day to renew her hair color and been unfortunate enough to arrive at our family summer home in a downpour. By now you’re aware that our place is on an island, which means crossing a stretch of water in a rowboat, completely unprotected from the elements. Every bag she set down immediately created a small lake on the floor. I was thankful I’d not bothered to actually wash the floor earlier since the job would get done now when we mopped up the rain she’d brought in. My sister’s Jack Russell came in and shook. For a small dog, she sure managed to add quite a bit to the general wetness. It began to look like they’d all fallen INTO the lake.

I know, you’re wondering why blue? I wonder that myself. I’d like to think it’s a mid-life crisis, but coloring her hair with vibrant and very unnatural tints has been going on too long to be just a crisis. I think it’s become a way of life, so I shrug my shoulders. That’s my sister and I love her, blue hair, or purple, or whatever the latest color is! She drives a car with fish on it too. Kind of completes the picture! The car was once my mom’s car and I had to take it away from her when her Alzheimer’s got so bad she’d become a hazard to herself and others. Because my Dad lived in the same house and I didn’t and we knew she would be angry, I took the fall. Sarah had needed a new car for some time and it just made sense to give her my Mom’s old car. But like I said, we knew Mom wasn’t going to be happy about losing her wheels so Sarah took it to the body shop and maroon became teal.

Before she took possession of my mom’s car, Sarah drove an ancient white vehicle that had been named Handy Andy due to the multi-colored handprints she and her daughter had decorated the fading white paint with. I suppose, after the all attention Handy Andy drew from anyone who saw it, driving a plain teal car, however lovely the color might be, wasn’t an option. Before long it sported an entire aquarium of creatures, clown fish, seaweed and an octopus that wrapped its arms lovingly about its unlikely home. I don’t know if Sarah ever bestowed a name on this creation, but it attracts as much attention as ever Handy Andy did.

And then there’s the blue hair…..

   The refrigerator at the cabin on our island has been there as long as any of us can remember. I was still a kid when my dad built the place and the fridge was probably installed in the late 50s. And if you knew my dad, you would be just as certain as I am that it was not new when it got there. It's the ugliest teal blue imaginable and some years ago, my sister and I tried to dress it up with some contact paper with a forest pattern on it. Anyway, the thing still runs -- after a fashion. It wheezes and rattles, and occasionally clunks alarmingly. We knew that sooner or later it would die. Probably sooner and with Murphy being a member of the family, it would do so on our family week when there were more than twenty people on the island and the thing would be stuffed with food. Being on an island has it's advantages, but getting a repairman out there to look at a geriatric refrigerator is not among them. And that's even assuming he would have parts for a model that ancient.  But then my sister's company consolidated offices and raffled off the things that would not be moving to the new location, the refrigerator being one. My sister put her name in the hat and to our astonishment, she won it.  Now we just had to get it out there.
   My stepson has a nice big power boat and my son has a buddy he could borrow a pick up truck from. The problem turned out to be that both men have, kids, jobs and busy lives and they kept thinking they had plenty of time to get their time coordinated. But with our family due to arrive en mass in just a couple weeks and with my stepson on vacation we had to fall back on Plan B. Which was disassembling the thing and figuring out how to move it to the island in one of the rowboats.  We row to and from the island and have four different boats to choose from. We ended up with the pram, and towed it with another row boat. Where there is a will, there is a way.  Getting it OUT of the boat once on the island was another chore, followed by getting the hand truck over roots and pine needles. It's now grandly installed in our humble kitchen, looking quite proud of itself and dominating the place. Thank God! Now we won't have to wonder where to keep the cold beer this year! Oh! And the rest of the food, too, of course!

 

I warned you it wasn’t all that grand, even though it’s definitely located in a beautiful place. But yesterday afternoon, I was wondering if it was worth all the work getting here. There had been a week of preparations to leave my home in St Augustine, shutting off mail and newspaper delivery, suspending satellite TV service, cleaning, bringing outdoor furniture inside where it couldn’t do damage if a windy storm blew in, emptying the fridge and the trash, packing my clothes and my car and making certain I had all the stuff I might need with me. Then came two very long days of driving. Ten hours the first day and thirteen the second day. That would usually have been twelve, but a construction tie-up in Pennsylvania kept me in bumper to bumper traffic for over an hour. I had a short but delightful visit at my son’s house, then pushed on to the lake in New Hampshire.

I had two side trips to make; one to Verizon to arrange for my slow but reliable internet connection for the summer and one to pick up replacement heartworm meds that I forgot to bring from home to get Duffy through the summer. Then it was on to the storage unit to pick up my tent and bedding with a stop at the grocery store to stock up at least a few basics in the way of food. Since the cottage is actually on an island, arriving here didn’t mean pulling into the driveway and unlocking the door. It meant unlocking the rowboat, unloading the car and then making three trips across the span of water separating the landing on shore from the dock on the island. It meant spending another whole day erecting my tent and schlepping all my gear from the boat to the tent and setting up my summer digs. So, in the midst of all this work, feeling hot, tired and very grumpy, I wondered if more than a week’s effort was really worth it. I seriously entertained the idea that I was getting too old for this sh@#!

But last night I fell asleep on my extremely comfy double-sized sleeping accommodations consisting of an air-bed topped with an nice thick futon mattress, in a tent with huge windows to let in the cool night air, to the sound of gently lapping water along the island’s shore. And I woke this morning, refreshed and surrounded by all the glory of a beautiful sunny day at the lake. So, now it does feel worth all the effort it took to get here. I still feel old and out of shape, and I really need to do something about that, but my attitude has adjusted itself. Life is definitely very good!

MacDuff has been a very nervous shadow hugging my side as I pack for our annual trip to New England. No way is he planning to be left behind. Every time I haul another box, tote or suitcase out to the car, he sits inside the door worrying. He's a good traveler, though, and all the angst will be worth it when we get to our summer home at the lake in New Hampshire. It sounds grandiose to call it a summer place on an island, and I don't like to give anyone the wrong impression. It is an island and we do own all approximately 1 acre of it, but that's where the fancy leaves off and reality begins. My Dad built a small "temporary" cabin on it back in the 1950s. He had every intention of building a bigger one eventually --- but then he got his first tax bill. New Hampshire has no sales or income tax so it soaks it's landowners. That was the end of any plans to build bigger and we are still the proud owners of a 14'x14' cabin with a small kitchen ell and an 8' porch along the front. Building codes have changed over the years and we'd never get a permit to build bigger now. There's no where on the entire island far enough from the water to meet current day setback requirements. There is electricity, but no running water so we have a hand pump and an outhouse. We treat the cabin like a clubhouse and kitchen while we sleep in tents and have a big dining canopy and two long tables so we can all sit down to dinner at the same time. Access is by rowboat unless my step-son comes up with his nice big power boat, but it's fairly close to shore and the crossing is brief.

But as far as Duff is concerned, the best part of the place is that it is surrounded by water and he can go swimming 24/7. There are ducks to chase and boats to bark at and he loves it. What more could a pooch ask for?  It's also a great place to write. Quite, peaceful and beautiful. So, my plan is to get back to writing and get another book started while I'm there. In between visiting with all my kids and grandkids, that is. And picking fresh blueberries that grow wild on the island, and watching spectacular sunsets, and swimming any time I like, or reading in the hammock at the edge of the lake. Have a wonderful summer, everyone!

I showed up at Taberna del Gallo for work as usual on Sunday - no reason I shouldn't just because it was my birthday after all - and was completely surprised by a party in my honor. I'm a little slow on the uptake - or maybe I can be excused by the interest several patrons showed in my recently released debut novel, but the fact that two couples I call friends just happened to be hanging out in the tavern didn't tip me off. Neither did the fact that both the men who work the tavern were on duty when usually it's just the one on a Sunday afternoon. Even when I spotted Jenny, who manages the place, I hurried after her to tell her something and it was only then that I discovered a party all laid out on the patio. It's amazing how single-mindedly blind I can be at times. There were all the usual accoutrements of a birthday party; good food, cake and ice cream, gifts and photos of course. One of my favorite musicians was there to play and my favorite pirate stopped by to wish me a happy day as well. What a lovely way to mark the passing of years (even when one might wish to slow them down.)  I didn't get much work done, but no one seemed to mind. It turned out to be one of my best birthdays ever, but then, the folk who were there are the best ever. Thanks to Jenny, who I suspect organized it all, to Josh who picked out the perfect cake and always makes my Sundays fun, to Joel for the music, to Bill, Hazel, Bob, Ned, Greg and Reenie for setting aside part of your busy weekend to be there and to everyone else who stopped by to wish me a Happy Birthday. I love you all.

The Kindle in this pile is deceiving - slimmer than anything else save the newspaper clipping, yet it currently holds over 150 books and can hold more than ten times that. The pile itself is deceiving because that's just one surface in my house currently overflowing with books I want to read. In fact, I've decided I need to live as long as Methuseleh if I have any hope of reading everything has caught my interest. And that's if I stop acquiring new material! So, how does one control your To-Be-Read pile? For that matter, how do you keep track of all the books you've managed to amass? I'm looking for ideas here so any suggestions you have are more than welcome. 
But then, I am surrounded by books and I love it. The abundance is a blessing. And no matter what kind of a mood I'm in, there's surely something I will enjoy curling up with. We often take the luxury of reading for granted. We never think about the gift of knowing how to read as just that, a gift. How often do we remember how fortunate we are to live in a country where we have the freedom to read anything we want. Even the smallest of our towns have public libraries where anyone is welcome to come and browse. Our electronic age has made it even easier to acquire books. We can read them on paper, held in our hands, or we can read them on Kindles and Nooks, on our smart phones and our tablets and our computers. Think about the pioneers who traveled west in covered wagons, carrying a handful of carefully chosen books with them and re-reading them over and over. Or the rare soldier or sailor who had but one book to his name and that book a prize possession. How about the indentured servant or slave who had been fortunate enough to be taught how to read because their work required it and they treasured a cast off book regardless of the subject matter. Or a prisoner with a precious book secreted under a mattress to be read only when no one was looking. I wonder what they would think of my library? Of my riches?

   It occurs to me that they would think I was lucky beyond belief. So, I guess the idea of trying to decide what to read next or worrying about the overflowing piles would make them smile or shake their head at me in reproof. Should I ever get up in the dark of night and come into my library and find one of these book-starved ghosts from the past curled up on my loveseat with one of my books in their hand, I think I'll ask them if they'd like a cup of tea to go with it and leave them in peace to enjoy the rest of my collection.

Either my gadgets are getting smarter or I’m getting dumber…Probably both! Not so long ago if I had an interesting tidbit to relate, I could have told you exactly where I heard it. Or read it. Now . . . not so much. The sheer volume of information that I am exposed to has blossomed exponentially and my sources are everywhere.

A few years back my niece set up a family website. Most of us had a cell phone and we all had access to email, but suddenly this became our main source of family unity. Emotionally we are a close and sharing family but we are scattered all over the country so our new family website was like a virtual family gathering. We had picture pages, wish lists and a family calendar, but the most important page was the chat room. None of us would have dreamed of going through an entire day without checking in to see what the rest of the family was up to. We thought this was the end-all in family connectedness!

How quickly that all changed! Now we have smartphones and a download called WhatsApp. Now we “chat” via our phones. Even better, we can share photos and videos. I saw my granddaughter’s missing front teeth and the progress of my daughter’s house construction in New York, my grandson’s fascination with his dad’s power drill and his sister showing off her dance moves in Massachusetts. I can see and hear two other granddaughters playing in a violin recital and dancing at a Feis in Maryland. On Mother’s day I did face-time with my kids and grandkids - hundreds of miles away and they blew me kisses, sang me songs and showed me their latest artwork, and toys.

Then there’s Facebook and Twitter! Who could have even begun to imagine the effect Facebook and Twitter would have on our social lives just a few years ago? Turns out these social mediums and dozens of others can either be the making or breaking of us. Sadly, a congressman from New York found out just how devastatingly ruinous it can be to post something he shouldn’t have. But conversely, an acquaintance of mine gave up waiting for the publishing world to recognize her talent and she self-published her book, which by word of mouth, spread over the country and the world via the internet and became a best seller beyond her wildest dreams. For most of us, they are just another way of sharing the things that make life fun, interesting, challenging and rewarding. Or for staying in touch with all the people we know, no matter how our paths might diverge.

And Blogs! Keeping a personal journal online for the whole world to follow. You can share ideas and information on any topic you can think of. There’s Skpye if you want to see who you’re communicating with. U-tube to share videos. Wikipedia, Ask.com - Google has become a verb! Don’t know the answer to something? Google it!!

Is it any wonder I can’t remember where I heard something? Now if only my smartphone could start an alphabetical file to help me keep track of things. Oh wait—maybe there’s an app for that!