It’s summer at last – the birds are singing; the sun is shining.
It’s five in the morning – why are those goddamn birds singing, and could the sun please stop shining?
It’s summer and I’m remembering a few years back, when everyone was reading that stupid Fifty Shades Of Grey book. Isn’t it great, I think, that civilization has progressed to where we can all say “remember when everyone was reading that book?” and it’s all in the past.
“Hey, have you got that new Grey book?” a guy in painting overalls says breathlessly the second the bookstore door opens in the morning. “This one’s told from the guy’s perspective – I got to get it for my wife!’
It’s summer and I can sleep if I have the curtain cracked to let some air in but not so much that the blinds clack against the other window frame. I have moments where I think “at least in winter sleeping is easy”.
There’s a magical point where the lawn mower is working, the strimmer string isn’t tangled or completely gone and if I could just finish mowing the backyard, there might be a day or two where the front yard doesn’t look like a jungle and the whole cycle starts again.
It’s summer and the local drive-in is showing Harold and Maude and serving popcorn with real butter. We’re living in paradise.
It’s summer and if we drive an hour and a half we can see The Turtles, The Cowsills and The Association. I want to.
It’s summer and if we drive an hour and a half in the other direction we can see Van Gogh landscapes never before seen in America. I want to do that too.
Yoga man is back. I knew he was coming (saw the poster), thought of all kinds of things I could say to him about his no tipping ways but when he finally showed up in the bar and ordered a beer, I greeted him warmly. I almost felt happy to see him. It felt like a time-honored tradition, me serving him, him stiffing me on the tip. It’s summer, so he’s cut off his ponytail.
It’s summer, and I keep thinking that one of these years I will buy that perfect straw hat/pair of sandals/effortless dress but for now I’ll just wear what I’ve got.
I’m thankful there are less and less instances where I have to explain to someone behind a counter what iced coffee is. I’m thankful the whole world has learned how to make cold brew iced coffee like I used to find at only one place PJ’s in Louisiana.
Both Commander Cody and Artemis Pyle (of Lynyrd Skynyrd) are playing for free in the tiny town just up the Hudson from us, I think this is an improvement over the Beatles tribute bands they usually have – I will let you know.
For Eric’s birthday, I got him tickets to see David Crosby next week. Since we’re married, I think it’s a legal and moral requirement that I get to go with him. In preparation for going to see David Crosby, I was playing CSN in the bar. “I was there at Woodstock,” a customer says. “Me and a few of my buddies went. Couldn’t see or hear a thing!” I smile and nod. He continues: “I know you’re probably thinking ‘this guy’s too young to have been there!'” I’m actually thinking how I was just thinking ‘what’s this old guy’s story?’ I smile and nod.
It’s summer and there’s a real estate broker in a loud gingham shirt and shorts next to me at the Catskill Mill food truck picnic table. He’s telling a couple from the city how they should really consider buying a bigger place than they need ‘for the Airbnb possibilities’. When they ask him what days the food truck is open, he confidently tells them “Thursday through Sunday!” The days are listed right there on the side of the truck Wed through Sat. ‘And yet you trust this guy with your future,’ I think.
It’s summer and I want to make an album, write a different book from the one I’ve been working on, paint a masterpiece or at least fill a sketchbook with watercolors. But there’s a hammock over there.