A woman let her horse feed on the clover in the strip of field between the Stop and Shop and the local garage. The land near the garage is notorious for getting flooded, and remaining ankle to knee-deep long after the rain stops. The horse is blond, a pale beauty. There is something so right in this picture. I got lemonade, strawberries, parsley and a baguette for dinner. All day, nearly, the brie has been waiting on the counter. The chips man was hustling bags in the aisles almost as people grabbed them off the shelves. Nostalgia drives us to grab what we love from childhood: bread and butter pickles, yoo-hoo, peanuts. A neighbor carried home two stacks of wood. For a beach fire, he explained.
“Summer,” said a friend who co-runs a restaurant,” seems like it started four hours ago.” That felt right for today is Thursday, and already the air is thicker. The dahlias finally got planted, and staked,then removed, and replanted. A funny story if you ask me in a few years. My favorite cartoon from the New Yorker is a man happily planting in a rooftop garden only to have his carrots stolen by a bunny with wings. This isn’t a non sequitor if you knew the story about the dahlias.
Later while eating ice cream with another friend, we heard the first “F-ck you” from the traffic whizzing by, screamed by a man in a car to another diver. What is summer then in a prettyhow tourist town than ice cream, neighbors, and traffic curse-outs?
But then there was the beach, the pretty beach with a shark warning, the ocean that seemed endless, the water that was cold, and the sand sticky on bare feet across the asphalt.