Summerespite

There were days I wasn’t sure why I owned something that came with so much baggage.  About three-and-a-half feet long, plastic, and the epitome of institutional gray, the tables had legs that worked like a kickstand; push the joint until it locks, and you’re good to go.  Every bad memory of school cafeterias came flooding in whenever I looked at them.  Good thing they had found refuge in a remote corner of the garage, where they were generally out of sight.

But there were always those two, maybe three, times in the summer when they took center stage.  These were days where the humidity of the state surrounded by Great Lakes took a respite, where the sky was the blue of the best shirt ever made, and the wind hinted at its own playful presence.  Best of all, these days were almost always on weekends.

That turned out to be a very good thing, since my wife managed to pick these days, before their climate was predictable, to invite friends over for summer dinner.  Our house is big enough to accommodate all kinds of events, but a day like this was invented for us to take deep breaths of the outdoors’ existence, and to delight ourselves in her labors of love as a gardener.  Her vision of our modest piece of property yielded a variety and richness of vegetation that begged for a garden party, and we—more specifically, she—was all too happy to oblige.

Cue the rectangular garage dwellers.  Four quick kicks and a half-dozen spritzes of Formula 409 created a seven-foot-long platform for eating.  Thanks to a lovely tablecloth rich in Provence blues and reds, and fistfuls of wildflowers arching gracefully from two Mason jars, the scene went beyond one of eating, or even dining.  It became an outdoor salon, center stage for longtime friends to leave the kids at home and remember the parts of our lives where we weren’t a chauffeur, or second guessing our efforts to guide another human being along life’s journey. 

Between courses that featured grilled vegetables, marinated meats, and desserts on springform pans that had nothing to do with cheesecakes, we talked about memories we hadn’t thought about in ages, brief stories about parenting that hinted at life’s larger meaning, and ideas we were thinking about that never had time for fruition during the regular day.  All this, while drinking sparkling waters infused with fruits we’d never heard of.  All this, while wondering what was keeping us from making grilled vegetables more of an everyday event.

The time seemingly came and went more quickly than the preparation for the day.  Making a handful of trips from house to yard to deconstruct the staging, this lush environment seemed even richer than it was just a few hours prior. The next few days featured a different kind of dismantling, as the aluminum foil packets of feast remnants were opened, lovingly remembered, and gracefully respected as they were emptied.

These are the moments when the notion comes to life that living is more a matter of vision than anything else.  Some people pass those tables—still available at Costco—and think of barbecued hot dogs and family reunions.  Others see a lifetime of children’s birthday parties, and others think, finally, a way to organize the basement.  For me, their use as a reminder of sixth grade chocolate pudding is largely gone now, replaced by anemone and black-eyed Susans in jars of pale green water, inviting us to sit, pause, and imbibe in the rich air of a sweet summer day.

Snowglobe

Cloud whisperers?
No.
We cannot bend them 
To our hopes.
But they speak to us
At traffic lights
Walking dogs
Gathering the mail.
More firewood
They say
So fat they are five dimensions.
You’ll want enough
Til Tuesday.

We build the fires high
And honor them
With cream based cocoa toasts.
And when the cozy nights turn dozy
We squint before fading
And behold a house
Not dark at all.

Round the shades
Peering past shutter slats
Bursting through blinds
The bedroom glows
Brighter and differently than noon.
The snow is center stage
Stacked on limbs
Defying Newton
Masquerading roofs
To look like sledding hills
Delivering a delight
Of clean
And new.

Off we glide
Bathed in a promise
Bigger than ourselves
Sealed with memories
Of footed jammies
Freshly washed hair
And the day’s quiet pronouncements 
Of the power of beginning 
Rendered fresh
Grateful for this crystallized baptism.

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