The Sound of Summer:
Despite setting my alarm clock every evening, what wakes me isn’t the buzzing of some mechanical gadget, but rather the vigilant woodpecker dedicated to his craft right outside my window. Each morning at around 5:30 he’s ready to work on my copper rain gutters, which are obviously not up to his standards. Hearing his beak collide with the gutters, I pull back the covers. It’s time to follow nature’s example and start the day.
From there, I head to Starbucks with my Portuguese Waterdog, Summer. He waits patiently next the newsstand while the neighbors say their hellos and hand him treats. (I swear that more people know that Muppet of a dog than me some days.) Once that iced skim latte hits my hand, I’m out the door. With Summer by my side, we walk to the shore. The sounds of the sails flapping in the wind combined with the overheard conversations of the sailing crew, known to the locals as the Blue Shirts, we dash for the water.
At first, with Summer living for the waves, we play a few rounds of fetch. He leaps over the waves as far as possible until he can no longer reach the false bottom that the seiche provides. That’s when he really shines. Hearing him pant with each stroke he seems as unstoppable and as unchangeable as the season itself. Swimming past buoys and clashing with the water, he finally reaches that tennis ball and returns victoriously to the sand.
After a couple hours lying on the designated beach cloth, we trudge back. Exhausted from the sun, I let Summer recuperate at home while I set up the sprinklers and head for the market with one item in mind: chicken, otherwise known as a little piece of heaven. If I’ve learned anything from Martha Stewart or Art Smith is how to make a batch of buttermilk fried chicken. For me, it’s the perfect end to a perfect summer day. To sit on the front porch with my dinner in hand, watching the lightning bugs slowly appear and hearing the crickets make their musical score of the evening I realize that I couldn’t ask for anything more.