Summertime blues

I'm not usually big on lament, but it seems I'm making an exception and moping around about the summer that never was. It's true that there was precious little warm, let alone hot, and there was an injudicious amount of rain – so much that when it stopped raining every day, it took a few weeks to realize the constant deluge had stopped. And then it started up again. On the one hand, there was little need for air conditioning; I never even opened up the attic windows this year. On the other hand, there wasn't a lake that didn't feel like ice, and swimming was more because you just had to than because it was sweet relief.

Still, my displaced seasonal affective disorder aside, it wasn't a total loss – all those summer things happened. Fewer bike rides than normal, but we got the boats out more. There was rollerblading and frisbee, beaches and camping and one decent road trip. Books were read in hammocks. Food was taken outside to be eaten. And my god were there fresh vegetables, and the ridiculous joy of black raspberry pie. We saw friends and fireworks (though we never did get in a baseball game, again because of the rain). So it's hard to complain, in retrospect, though a few more days with the sun beating down on me wouldn't have dismayed me. (Although, if I'm being honest, unless I'm on my bike I never actually put my body in the sun. It's not for me. I'm a shade boy.)

The bloom is already off the second part of the lament, as the girls have been back in school all week, we're starting to settle into the ballet schedule, and we're already getting accustomed to the strains of "The Nutcracker." Auditions are tomorrow.