Once upon a summer afternoon

Summer in the Lagan--it's just not something that can be described. In the morning, sun slants onto the wood of the porch and it is cold in the shade. In the sun, it gets warm--slo-o-o-o-owly.

There's a freshness to the air that disappears around noon or so. The dew glitters on the grass, which, in early summer, still remains green--it's in late summer when it is brown. Deep shadow sheathes the areas to the west, whereas the east gets brilliant sun. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the Olympic mountains towards the west glitter with their frosty peaks.

Wilted leaves of yesterday's play are scattered around the ground. The pipe--it is a PVC pipe that becomes a horse, a microphone, a geiger counter, and a marble run--is lying wet on the dewy grass where it was left yesterday. The ground is slightly wet from where it was soaked with the hose. A lone doll, forgotten for the moment, lies on the back porch to be discovered later. She is unharmed.

In the afternoon, it is hot and dry. It is time for running, bare feet to cross the sun-baked path and flatten tender young shoots of grass down. They spring up with a rustle. Dirty hands use a rock to chop morning glory vines, and the few flowers left open are put into a braided vine. The hose fills buckets and water guns. Most of the time the buckets are to play "Indian" in the tents. But not the game most people play with cowboys or hunting buffalo. Instead, this is a more domestic scene of living off the land in a tipi. Blankets and sashes make perfect dress-up clothing put on over dirt covered, grass stained, white shorts and a tank-top.

Sometimes in the afternoon a sprinkler makes the hard prickly dry grass mushy and soaking to walk upon. Two dancing and jumping figures turn off the sprinkler, abruptly stopping the pretty rainbows running through it, and retreat into the cool of the house. There's a smell of an old piano and plinking and plonking sounds emit from an open window. Pretty soon two sisters are "sunbathing" in the kitchen.

The way to the library, meant to be walked upon with shoes, is rocky and sun-baked. It is about four or five blocks away. Entering there from the oppressive, dusty heat of the outside is like entering water. A deep, cool, quiet place with shelves of magic yours for the asking.

In the evening, a book is a handy tool to keep the magic going in the warm house. A meal of popcorn and apples and cold, sweet milk is welcome. So is fast, light Jewish music pouring from the stereo. After the CD is up and the meal is finished, it is time to catch the last rays of sun from the yard. When the whole west side of the yard is bathed in a golden glow, it is time to pretend you have been touched by Midas. Then it is dark, and bug repellent is helpful against mosquitos and other no-see-ums. Leaves are left to wilt for tomorrow's morning, and a doll is brought safely inside.

To fall asleep to the strains of "Pretty Saro" and "Pity Undue" is a "perfect ending to a perfect day".

Down in some lone valley, in a lonesome place
Where the wild birds do whistle and their notes do increase,
Farewell, pretty Saro, I bid you adieu
And I'll dream of pretty Saro wherever I go...

Oh, I'll dream of pretty Saro
Wherever I go...