And so it is summer. The Fourth is our touchstone here, it is usually hot, at last, which was the case this past weekend. An old friend decided to escape Boston for the weekend and drove out, bearing lobster and salmon as her contribution to the celebration. There were parties on the lawn and on the deck, compliments of my neighbors, no shortage of sun and fair weather, the sky bluest of blue, light breezes. No bugs. An afternoon at the lake. Occasionally one of us would utter: we’re living in paradise! We browsed at yard sales, which were abundant. I reeled in a nearly new salad spinner ($1), a handful of linens, napkins, and grandma-style pot holders ($1), a pair of brass candlesticks ($1!), and, my triumph of the weekend, a beautifully maintained, nearly new Mantis rototiller. I have one that was given to Paul and me for our wedding – in 1984! It's lightweight and agile, able to move between rows without damage. In short, it's indispensable. Two years ago, the pull starter broke and I’ve been meaning to have it fixed ever since. But this is a much snazzier version and cost less than what the repair might have. Score one for the garden!
And of course, there were fireworks. For years I have enjoyed the luxury of living between two towns who somehow manage to stage great fireworks. The displays are usually scheduled on different nights so that I can take in two shows in the weekend. I can never get enough fireworks. Occasionally, they stage their shows on the same night and in that case, I stay home on my hill and watch both from my lawn – look south and see the bursts from Dublin, turn to the north and there is the Harrisville extravaganza, rising above the trees. Harrisville’s fireworks are staged by the volunteer firefighters, I think their favorite activity of the whole year. They set up the pyrotechnics in the cemetery which is something of a peninsula that juts into the lake. That way, the townspeople can gather on the town beach and watch the rockets explode over the water. Dublin’s show is put on by a (private) lake club situated across the road from the town’s cemetery. They launch the rockets from a barge floating in the lake and, using a remote control, set the fireworks off from the shore of their swimming beach. At dusk, townspeople begin setting up chairs and laying out blankets in the town’s cemetery, which happens to be across the road from the club. The cemetery, which is quite old, slopes upward from the road providing a perfect amphitheater for viewing the show. So, in both towns, the shows involve a lake and a cemetery. I often wonder how many other places in this country have a situation like that. Whatever, I’m glad it exists here. Because the Harrisville cemetery is roped off while the firemen engage in legal pyromania, I am more moved by the show in Dublin, as sitting among the tombstones of what are sometimes Revolutionary and Civil war heroes raises the profundity of this uniquely American tradition. This year we managed to fit in both shows. In Harrisville, chatting with friends as we were waiting for the show to begin, we reminisced about some of the better or worse shows we remembered, the time when we were almost literally carried off by the mosquitoes and especially the one a few years ago when thick fog enveloped the lake. The result was a hazy smear of color above the fog. All the booms were there but we couldn’t see the flowery explosions. “Focus!” one humorist shouted out as the fog turned pink and green. But this year there were brilliant shooting stars,chrysanthemums,curlicues that whistled all accompanied by chest-thumping reports that made the earth beneath us shudder. At the end of all this, there was a pause. We knew (hoped we knew) what was about to come -- the great finale! We were not disappointed as the entire sky appeared to be exploding in technicolor right above our heads. We laughed and shrieked right along with the children all around us. And, who knows what benevolent tax dollars led to this but, once that was done, there was another pause as we all began to rise and collect our blankets and WAIT! -- yet another, even more spectacular finale went off above us. It was all sufficiently exciting to require recovery.
Late yesterday afternoon, I bid adieu to my guest and came inside to gather my thoughts and return to “normal.” No sooner had I done that than I looked out to see a huge black cloud approaching from the west. Storm! I quickly unplugged my computer and other important electronics and closed windows, just in time for a torrential downpour and great forks of lightning. It was OK, the weekend had closed, the parties with their perfect summer weather were all over, the lobster shells had been sucked clean and put into the compost pile, the residue of the salmon had been scraped from the grill, we’d taken our harvest from the yard sales, and the fireworks, which we all declared the best ever, were already part of our individual town histories. The storm passed and I went to bed early, frogs chorusing from the pond. All was right with the world, to every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. Tomorrow, back to work. Happy summer!
And of course, there were fireworks. For years I have enjoyed the luxury of living between two towns who somehow manage to stage great fireworks. The displays are usually scheduled on different nights so that I can take in two shows in the weekend. I can never get enough fireworks. Occasionally, they stage their shows on the same night and in that case, I stay home on my hill and watch both from my lawn – look south and see the bursts from Dublin, turn to the north and there is the Harrisville extravaganza, rising above the trees. Harrisville’s fireworks are staged by the volunteer firefighters, I think their favorite activity of the whole year. They set up the pyrotechnics in the cemetery which is something of a peninsula that juts into the lake. That way, the townspeople can gather on the town beach and watch the rockets explode over the water. Dublin’s show is put on by a (private) lake club situated across the road from the town’s cemetery. They launch the rockets from a barge floating in the lake and, using a remote control, set the fireworks off from the shore of their swimming beach. At dusk, townspeople begin setting up chairs and laying out blankets in the town’s cemetery, which happens to be across the road from the club. The cemetery, which is quite old, slopes upward from the road providing a perfect amphitheater for viewing the show. So, in both towns, the shows involve a lake and a cemetery. I often wonder how many other places in this country have a situation like that. Whatever, I’m glad it exists here. Because the Harrisville cemetery is roped off while the firemen engage in legal pyromania, I am more moved by the show in Dublin, as sitting among the tombstones of what are sometimes Revolutionary and Civil war heroes raises the profundity of this uniquely American tradition. This year we managed to fit in both shows. In Harrisville, chatting with friends as we were waiting for the show to begin, we reminisced about some of the better or worse shows we remembered, the time when we were almost literally carried off by the mosquitoes and especially the one a few years ago when thick fog enveloped the lake. The result was a hazy smear of color above the fog. All the booms were there but we couldn’t see the flowery explosions. “Focus!” one humorist shouted out as the fog turned pink and green. But this year there were brilliant shooting stars,chrysanthemums,curlicues that whistled all accompanied by chest-thumping reports that made the earth beneath us shudder. At the end of all this, there was a pause. We knew (hoped we knew) what was about to come -- the great finale! We were not disappointed as the entire sky appeared to be exploding in technicolor right above our heads. We laughed and shrieked right along with the children all around us. And, who knows what benevolent tax dollars led to this but, once that was done, there was another pause as we all began to rise and collect our blankets and WAIT! -- yet another, even more spectacular finale went off above us. It was all sufficiently exciting to require recovery.
Late yesterday afternoon, I bid adieu to my guest and came inside to gather my thoughts and return to “normal.” No sooner had I done that than I looked out to see a huge black cloud approaching from the west. Storm! I quickly unplugged my computer and other important electronics and closed windows, just in time for a torrential downpour and great forks of lightning. It was OK, the weekend had closed, the parties with their perfect summer weather were all over, the lobster shells had been sucked clean and put into the compost pile, the residue of the salmon had been scraped from the grill, we’d taken our harvest from the yard sales, and the fireworks, which we all declared the best ever, were already part of our individual town histories. The storm passed and I went to bed early, frogs chorusing from the pond. All was right with the world, to every thing there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. Tomorrow, back to work. Happy summer!