When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
Writers in the summer not pretty. We are indoor people. We are lumpy or bony with bad hair. We are not poolside, oceanside, hikers, bikers, or amusement park riders. We are bad houseguests, self-absorbed and antsy to get home. Brunch brunch brunch brunch. I fucking hate it. I don’t want to pick berries. I don’t want pale ale. I don’t like chicken thighs. I hate summer because I don’t know how relax.
What’s your summer?
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Betsy Lerner 
Hidden away banging back the Vitamin D to stave off the rickets also known as writing a novel.
Summer is begging for an extension on book and looking for a publisher for novel. And losing my teen. And being hot. Trying to make my writers’ cottage in the woods habitable
Ugh. Summer. All of the above, though I do have to swim in the deep, cool Atlantic 2-3 times every August. Otherwise, I want cold days and scarves.
Working outside under my tree
Just like yours.
Outside dining in my garden as much as possible. Constantly pulling weeds from flower beds, too. Being able to enjoy the outdoors as much as possible as winters can be long and dreary where I live and that kind of weather lasts too long!!!
I do love summer, even if I’m aligned with your assessment above. Not poolside, oceanside, picking berries and the like. Nope. Nope. Nope. I’m pounding on the keyboard. (that could mean writing or not)
I had this crazy idea a few weeks back that we ought to have a going away supper for our neighbors of 20 years, who’ve sold their home and are moving to a suburb outside of Chicago to be close to their daughter. They’re in their 80s, and once they’re gone (end of this month) it’s likely we will never see them again. I find this so very sad, and it’s given me a case of achy heart. So we had the shindig here late yesterday…about 25 people came, and I’m tired, BUT. I’m glad we did it. Point being…it seems like I’ve done nothing but think about the get together since I suggested it all those weeks ago, and now, like many, many things in life, soon to include these dear neighbors, it too has come and gone.
That’s the summer so far. Hm.
“What’s your summer?”
Work. Then, for a change of pace, I’m going to work on something else. To mix it up a bit, I’ll work on a third thing. Then a fourth, if there’s time.
Oh. Other things. I almost forgot. Or wanted to. Susan and I sometimes take what she calls “urban hikes.” We took one Saturday: three miles down to the Edgewater Greek Fest. Lamb and Moussaka dinners in styrofoam nests. Hand-made iced frappes. That honey-drenched Greek dessert called Lou-something. A cover band playing 60s and 70s and 80s hits way too effing loud (dance pop? I thought this was a Greek Fest, dammit!). Me shouting at everyone who says something to me, “I can’t hear you!” It was fun. We bought pastries and brought them home. On the bus. No way was I walking, or “hiking,” three miles back up to my hovel by the lake, with or without bags of pastries in hand.
There was a time, long ago and far away, when I hiked in forested mountains and rode my bike along riverside paths. Yes, I miss it. Even when I had it, I missed it. There was never enough time.
There’s barely enough time for work.
You load sixteen tons, and what do you get . . . ?
Another day older and…
…deeper in debt.
Saint Peter don’t you call me cuz i can’t go . . .
I long for cloudy days because the sun shines so brightly on my favorite writing place. I can’t see the screen. Considering what I’m wording-up maybe that’s a good thing.
Waiting fir my third grandchild, first boy, to breath air any day now. Life is beyond grand this summer as it has always been.
Alright, not enough time to work on the outdoor projects and in the garden. Like to get out on the lake(s) with paddleboard or canoe, find a secret sandy beach on a clear pond and swim naked in the cool waters ( I wear a bathing suit when I’m with my daughter or at the non-private places), dry off in the warm sun. Picked wild strawberries for pancakes yesterday morning. I like how once you find one little patch and get down on the ground other patches nearby suddenly reveal themselves. And, in my opinion, no berry is sweeter than a juicy wild strawberry. It looks like the blueberries will be abundant after all the rain we’ve had and the blackberry bushes are overloaded. I walk to work when I can along the lake, sometimes irritated by the retirees up from Florida out walking their dogs and who have all the time to stop and chat when all I want to do is keep moving, editing and rearranging the thoughts and scenarios in my head. Getting to work on time is kind of a factor, too, conscientious as I am. I live in a vacation summer paradise and need to remind myself all the time to enjoy where I live. I like walking in the woods during all seasons and the summer time strolls in cool, shady woods feels fine. There are too many people in the High Peaks these days, so I prefer the quieter places, although I should get out on a peak again — first hike of the year was up a small beautiful mountain named for Andrew Goodman, one of the three young civil rights workers murdered down south in the 1960s; he hiked this mountain with his family when they came up to their camp near Tupper Lake. May he rest in peace.
I like to play my guitar on the screened in porch on cool summer evenings and play the electric guitar with abandon at hot and sweaty jam nights.
Sometimes I write. I probably write more in the fall and winter, but sometimes I do write in the summer.
As one of those Leo-born folks, summer is when I feel most at home in the universe. Yes the weather can be hot, but the quality and quantity of the sunlight; the explosion of greenery and flowers; all the bounty from my garden balanced against the plethora of festivals and outdoor activities for people watching and writing inspirations are some of the reasons this quadrant of the year is my favorite. Then, there is Birthday Month – for what Leo can resist such a chance to celebrate? This may not be my most productive time to write, but it’s well-spent in incubating ideas.
Have to also admit I’ve never tasted one of those swirled lollipops. As it’s consumed, does it fall apart as some sugar version of Yeats’ poem?
My mom has discovered marijuana cookies. Best thing that’s ever happened to my summer.
I am blessed to be in a cottage by the shore, summertime. I am blessed to have family, and friends and fireworks and food and fanfare, kisses and hugs and corn and lobster. There are fairy roses everywhere, pink, perfect, in their profuse and unkempt display. And the sunlight, early on and still pale, slips through the blinds to welcome me to a morning jostle, and I wake and walk down to the sound, java in hand, and the waves glisten.
Spending an evening with seven remarkable women in North Carolina, getting caught out in a thunderstorm in Virginia…..whiskey pong in New Jersey, time with my sons…seeing old friends….building a camping trailer….working on our Grandson’s very first sailboat, a joy like no other….sailing through a rainstorm, cool and warm and wet all at once. Days so hot and humid that early morning and evening are the only times to come out to cool beverages and hungry mosquitoes. This is the 2017 Summer Tour de Frank, and it’s a blast.
Here’s to you all. May all your days be fine, and may you have enough.