Here in the Maritimes, June ripens into July so easily that it takes a really keen eye to notice the difference. We get beautiful warm sunny days, ripe with sunshine and the sound of fledgling birds leaving the nests, and yet, the nights are not yet so hot and humid as to hamper comfortable sleep. There is a breathless dazzle in the yard and garden, with slow and dreamy afternoons.
And if the day gets too hot to be bearable, you are never very far away from the delights of the seaside. From where we live, less than half an hour by car.
These are not the busy seaside's of the larger urban centers with loads of trappings and idolatry, but simple spots to park the car, and walk . . . with stony shores filled with seaweed left by the tide going out, colorful fishing shacks, and the sound of gulls soaring overhead. The air is noticeably cooler here and contains the noticeable tang of salt and ocean. It is euphoric.
I could sit and watch the water for hours. It is so peaceful there. You might catch a few fishermen sitting on the dock, poles in the water, or the odd person walking their dog along the shore . . . really the only sounds are the waves and the gulls. I love it there . . . if I had the money I would buy a small cottage and live there year round.
I stopped to talk to my next door neighbor Sheila yesterday. I had been taking my compost down to the compost bins. She was wondering if I had seen the news on the television and seemed shocked when I told her that I do not watch the news. Even now, I cannot tell you if anything has happened because I am that much in the dark about the affairs of the world. It is not worth the breaking of my contented heart to chance a listen. I figure if I need to know anything important, it will come to me, I do not need to be seeking it out. Perhaps that makes me uninformed, but I am not bothered. Uninformed or not, I am content. I have experienced enough drama in my life so as not to want to invite it in.
There is life outside of the news, and it is quite peaceable. If the world is ending, I do not need to spoil my last few moments of life here with things I can do nothing about. Why choose to have my heart broken anew every morning by things I have no control over. My only news is on a "need to know" basis and that is how I like to keep it.
In my previous married life we would always spend a few weeks on the Island visiting family in July. The "girls" as we called them would be up from the states and staying at the cottage in Malpeque. The old Aunts . . . sisters . . . had moved down to Boston after the war and gotten married, but always returned each summer to the Island where they would set themselves up and hold court at the cottage.
Aunt Rita would also spend her days there keeping everyone happy and fed. You would often find her at the counter in the kitchen area putting together oat and cheese Bannocks while everyone else sat around the table playing cards, the air ringing with the sound of hands hammering down onto the table as someone shouts out "thirty for sixty!"
I am not a card player. I was always only ever an observer to these delights and going's-on. Sometimes I would take the children and we would go out and walk along the shore next to the cottage picking the wild rhubarb that grew there.
It was not a fancy cottage . . . simple and put together before building codes might have hampered its being built . . . filled with old castoffs and comfy chairs. Cold and alone in the winter months, it came alive in July and August . . . its rafters ringing with life and laughter.
I have always loved to picnic. When I was a child it would be a simple repast carried in a paper bag holding a peanut butter sandwich and a jar filled with Cool-aid. Nothing tasted better on a hot day after a sweaty bike ride up the mountain. Eaten in the grass overlooking the valley below. Fits and giggles. Good times.
Picnic is a magic word. It conjures up the images of genteel ladies in flower sprigged bonnets sitting on gingham cloths spread out onto the grass as they watch gentlemen in straw hats with sleeves rolled up tossing balls back and forth . . . it is much, much more than merely eating out of doors. A picnic is an exercise in serenity and simple pleasures.
A peaceable calm and respite from the furor and allure of everyday busy-ness. Boiled eggs, wrapped in wax paper, robust sandwiches with the crusts cut off and filled with slices of ripe chilled tomato, sticks of crisp cucumber, and chunks of salty cheese. Pressed paper punnets filled with sweet fresh berries, lightly dusted with sugar and ready for eating. Glass bottles, beaded with sweat and filled with ice cold lemonade . . . the hum of flies and bees, perhaps the smell of hotdogs and marshmallows being roasted over an open fire in the distance floating through the air.
Picnics and summer go together like peas and carrots . . .
Oh I have waxed on this morning . . .
A thought to carry with you . . .
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˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
things I cannot change,
I am changing the things
I cannot accept.° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
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In The English Kitchen this morning . . . Blueberry & Lemon Drop Scones. Simple, quick, easy to make and delicious. A small batch of only four, sugar glaze crusted sweet scones.
I hope you have a wonderful Wednesday. I have to bake some biscuits this morning to take to a family whose mother is in hospital. I also have some cookies to bring. I will take them to my friend Jackie's and she will drop them off. It is called a Relief Society food train I believe. I could be wrong. An opportunity to help out in any case! Whatever you get up to stay safe and be happy! Don't forget!
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And I do too!
