when summer comes

 

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It’s summer in New England, and all outdoors awaits.

All the best verbs of summer wait just beyond the front door and down the porch steps: explore, discover, daydream, hike, climb, paddle, swim, bike, wade …  and stroll.

In New England, we count the days until summer comes. And when it does, we don’t want to miss a minute.

There’s so much to be done before the cold air returns, the flakes fly, and we all head back indoors: I’ve got bubbles to blow, sidewalks to chalk, fireflies to count in the backyard, and kites to set sail down the beach.

I’ll rise early and tumble to bed late. I’ll take long walks after dinner. I’ll play whiffle ball, bocce, and croquet in the backyard. I’ll be a picker of wild daisies, and buttercups, Queen Anne’s lace, and black-eyed Susans.

 

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I’ll picnic and sip lemonade from a waxy, paper cup. I’ll suck on orange popsicles and juice will drip down my chin.

It’s time to pitch the tent and climb a mountain. Cool lake water awaits a dive at the count of one … two … three … Go! The college kids at the ice cream place down the road stand at the window, ready to scoop my order.

There’s places to go, people to see, and things to do – the very essence of childhood to remember. And live again.

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This weekend alone, there’s sparklers to twirl, marshmallows to brown at the end of a stick, and independence to be thankful for.

It’s summer in New England, and I’m going to be busy.

Don’t you worry.

I’ll send you a postcard.

 

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