Signs of Summer

I made a folder on the computer for the pictures I’ve been taking lately and labeled it “Summer_’11.”  I know the equinox hasn’t arrived, and astronomically, it’s still spring, but the screens are down and the windows are up.  There have been dozens of signs of summer – the opening of Farfar’s in Duxbury, the first gin and tonic, and twilight rides into the countryside in search of the scent of new mown hay. 

I’ve set the DVR on my television set to record Masterpiece Theater every Sunday night, and I hope the memory doesn’t fill to overflowing before I start watching and deleting episodes in the fall.  My short sleeve shirts have been taken from storage and placed within easy reach.  Forget socks, it’s sandal time.

Out at the beach we ready our cottage at a fogy pace.   Gone are the Junes when we cleaned the floors, changed the bed, hauled in the supplies, and washed every singled dish in one joyous day.  Now it’s step by step, and we’ve enlisted help, but except for a few more dishes to wash, we’re ready.  I’ve heard the trill of the song sparrows in the beach roses and the plaintive call of a lovesick mourning dove. I think of it as forlorn pleading, which is not a recommended technique for attracting modern human females, but apparently persuades lady doves.

The actual move to the cottage must be a decisive event because dwelling in two households simultaneously is not a good idea. Everything from the ketchup to an adequate supply of underwear seems always to be in the place you aren’t. But even now we’ve taken out a pound of coffee, and yesterday we carried out a pastry from Panera and breakfasted al fresco on the harbor side deck.  A man in a work boat was setting moorings.  What better sign of emerging summer could there be? 

The application of sunscreen is a ritual that rivals the donning of snowsuits in my youth.