The sun beating down through a cloudless sky makes it feel more like July than the end of August. But, the incessant chirping of crickets lodged in our stone wall, speaks the truth.....Fall is arriving. These are the glory days, the savored last days of summer, quiet days when the world seems almost to have stopped. Parents have returned to work from their vacations and the kids are back in school. The birds are even silent as they prepare to leave. Only the squirrels continue to chatter in glee while dropping Spruce cones to the ground, landing with a hard thud, to be retrieved later and stored in their midden. Summer is ending, the season most of us long for all year. A lunch of sliced tomatoes, warm from the garden and pepper dotted cucumber wedges will soon be a thing of the past, replaced by tomato soup and grilled cheese. I've already washed and folded the beach towels, storing them in the linen closet. Shamu, the inflatable killer whale, lies deflated in its plastic sack down cellar. At the pond, near the large rock, blackberries beckon to be picked. Only a few weeks ago, small tan bodies laid here on towels getting warmed by the sun.
Bucky and I left Alaska on July 18th. When returning to Vermont, I'm always astounded by my home state's beauty. As we drove down the highway from Boston to Burlington, the landscape unfolded like the pages of an artist's sketch book. Layers of green cascaded from the tops of the Green Mountains to the teal rivers tucked in valleys below. Emerald green, forest, fern and moss green hills, layered on top of one another like the rounded backs of turtles, eventually stretching upward to meet a cornflower blue sky.
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| Lake Dunmore |
Our first task was to drive to the Northeast Kingdom and mow the lawn of our cabin. We don't spend much time here during the summer, as we are usually in Alaska. For the past 5 summers, the cabin grass has been mowed by our generous neighbor, Bernie. Sadly, Bernie died this past year allowing our lawn to return to nature.
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lots of apple this year
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Bee balm
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| mowed |
On August 12th we gathered as a family at Lake Dunmore. Instead of the predicted rain, it was fun in the sun. Bucky and I found ourselves sitting back watching the activities feeling strangely like our own grandparents must have felt at this age. Our youngest family member was 10 days old and Bucky was the eldest at 71. We found that our nap time was surprisingly close to that of the childrens'! The circle is closing!
Waterhouses on Lake Dunmore
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| small, medium and large |
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| cousins......minus one |
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| first time fishing |
Blackberries are now ripe for picking and the sun fades from the sky more quickly. Late summer provided us with one last opportunity to gather. Again, on a weekend that was predicted to be rainy, we headed to "camp". (for background, see the past post titled Camp) Camp lies on South Hero, one of the Champlain Islands. It's a special place that holds decades of memories for me and years of memories for the rest of the family. Sixty three years ago, my parents built the original wooden camp, nestling it against a rock ledge behind, and the open lake in front. It was here that my parents, grandparents, my brother, sister and I spent hours swimming, boating and fishing. With the neighbor kids we filled summer nights playing hide and seek, smoking the occasional cigarette and finding lots of excuses to drive to town. Rainy days slipped slowly by, with canasta, hearts and never ending games of monopoly. We fought, we laughed, we applied countless band aids to skinned body parts, sported a few plaster casts and felt as free as we ever have. Each time I return, those summer memories stream through my mind like a favorite movie.....part comedy, part adventure thriller and part summer romance.
Looking south toward Burlington
"Little Steamer", camp's original aluminum boat and the red sunfish we sailed as kids, still hold spots on the beach.
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| a new camp stands where the old wooden camp once stood |
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| lots of sitting, looking and talking goes on at camp |
In a few days, Bucky and I will return to Alaska. Notice I didn't say, fly home. Vermont will always be home. On September 17th we'll travel above the Arctic Circle in search of caribou. With luck, we'll have meat to process before loading our RV and heading east, 4,800 miles and
home.
