"There's nothing quite like summer"
(July 2008 issue of NH Mirror magazine)
The surest signs of summer around here are neither the day on the jumbo family calendar nor the outside air temperature. Nope, you know summer has truly arrived when slamming on the station wagon's brakes results in a rolling cacophony of beach pails, shovels, a good amount of sand, and various lake and ocean detritus. Summer announces its presence with an overflowing inbox of evites to parties celebrating birthdays, beer, messes (yes, we do attend an annual Messy Party - where the kids get ridiculously filthy for a great cause), independence, and fondue.
A hardcore New England family, we relish each and every season. Autumn days are ideal for picking apples and ogling foliage, icy winter afternoons are spent on the slopes, and spring is celebrated by throwing off the fleece and strolling downtown. Ah, but there is nothing quite like summer.
Much like baseball season, our summer has distinct opening and closing events. Our May season opener is spent, ironically, in the presence of vast quantities of snow at Tuckerman Ravine. When one's husband is among the ranks of the storied Mount Washington Volunteer Ski Patrol, one's self and children are mandated to haul their behinds up the mountain to enjoy the annual spaghetti dinner. My personal highlight of the dinner is not the awards or open air al fresco dining. The real reason for my pilgrimage is freshly churned vanilla ice cream made from virgin Mount Washington snow. A few spoonfuls into my dish, the sore muscles garnered from playing sherpa for two children simply melt away.
Our regular summer season is filled with lots of ice cream, but none that competes with that Mount Washington Vertical Vanilla. In addition to the ice cream, there are countless carefree days surrounded by friends, family, some element of sand and water, copious amounts of food, an open fire, lax bedtimes, and beaucoup gorgeous memories in the making.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, but at least summer lets us down gently. The final game of our summer season is a perpetually sunny gathering at the gorgeously understated and simple lake home of a former airline colleague. A vast expanse of green lawn stretches right down to the petite lakeshore. Children run around like banshees, watermelon juice streaming from their mouths like miniature vampires. Dogs lie in wait, snapping up any BBQ you are silly enough to set down. Grown-ups paddle out to the floating trampoline, where they get silly and embarrass their offspring. Late season blueberries are picked from lakefront bushes while wading in the cool water.
Eventually the sun begins to set, and we clamor aboard the pontoon boat for a leisurely troll around the lake, chatting and watching and soaking it all in. This final game is an inoculation of sorts against the coming months of limited daylight, bitter cold, and prolific mud. We know what lies in wait, but today, right in that moment, it is still summer. And we are loving it.
