The long, lazy days of summer are past, and all the possibilities they might have brought with them. Whiling away the hours in a hammock with a good, old-fashioned book, Henry James or Hemingway, To the Lighthouse, The Last of the Mohicans, The Mill on the Floss—Sitting crosslegged on the dirty-blond sand of a northern California beach, typing witty letters on an inherited old Smith Corona, or a raw, pithy memoir—Riding horses north of Half Moon Bay, flying kites on some high hillside, haunting the Cold Stone Creamery, grilling corn and peppers over charry coals, paddling out to the Farallons in a red kayak—and beyond—Learning to play the ukelele, growing heirloom tomatoes, building a model of the Taj Mahal—Sleeping until noon, or rising at dawn to run on quiet streets while others slept—The possibilities were endless, and the hours too; but now things have settled back down to familiar routines.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Gone to Seed
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