“Summer is the time when one sheds one’s tensions with one’s clothes,
and the right kind of day is jeweled balm for the battered spirit.
A few of those days and you can become drunk with the belief that all’s right with the world.”
Summer is an elusive season for the Pacific Northwest. There are certainly harbingers suggesting that we’re heading in the right direction, but it’s the pace of things that leaves me anxious and wondering, “Will summer ever arrive?” I’m encouraged by the dinnertime din that someone somewhere is mowing something, or the welcomed return of darting swallows overheard, or the lush, rapid and rampant growth of weeds in every corner of friable space.
Purists (and the science-minded) chide me that my laments are unfounded and that summer is still a month away, but I know better. When the hammock goes up the calendar is marked. (As the photo implies, Boz and Gracie tend to agree.)