La Luna…August moon, drapes a creamed canopy over the small of one’s back. Tan lines shiver as heated hands creamed in aloe, gently soften seared skin, cooling sun’s promise and warming moonbeam’s silver lance.

Sanded afternoons…yellow, grainy with lemony kisses…melt away emotion’s last defense…drops in a sloshing tide, dissolves amidst a swirl of crushed shells, stone and yesterday’s bruised memories.

Benvenuti La Luna Bella…

Our blue moon is exhausted from exertion; shining brilliantly last night over darkened trees, sleeping houses and cooling land. She settles slowly way off somewhere behind the forest on a quiet Saturday dawn as she winks and nods a greeting to the new month. Morning yawns cautiously in reply. They find themselves together on the down side of nothing.

This nothing day is not a day without purpose, but time where the mind’s eye, rested and cleansed looks outward; far, far ahead to see the horizon still mercifully uncluttered with tightly drawn squares, check marks, detailed lines of faces all demanding that something happen. On August the first, the day after the Blue Moon, nothing must happen. There is brewing coffee and porch lingering while listening to energized neighbors discuss methods of pulling rocks out of the front and side yard; a few vicious sneezes, and then silence.

Wherever those people linger who demand that we ‘do’, may they linger elsewhere for just a little bit longer because our summer is not yet spent. The season turns just a touch more with that inevitable twisting down toward cooling ground, longer evenings and lengthening shadows.

In June we tossed aside notebooks, envisioning endless sand, puffy clouds, watermelon ice and corn dogs; this time it would last forever. But July always comes to an end. So soon, too soon Earth’s yellow orb cowers under the Blue Moon’s gaze and she blinks first and so soon must we. But not today. Not yet.

August’s first early dawn settles, just a touch reserved; waiting as the white curtains in the reading room billow and flap wildly, and over this rocky terrain we call home, wind chimes blow continually at the edge of this house on the hill. He labors with the land by 6:30; weeding and by mid morning I shall take him cold, iced lemon water because all seasons require kindness…

The game’s energy still radiates off the fading photographs…framed baseball memories and caramel copper colored hall of fame walls, hallways and benches. Faces, chatter…now silenced…captured forever along with the memory of Jim Crow and The Cuban Giants…snuff, chew, cleats and gloves…Lefty Gomez, Dizzy Dean and Mordecai ‘three fingers’ Brown.

Watching his pride as he snaps photo after photo of Roberto Clemente…I understand him much better now.

An afternoon well spent in the snow covered, desolate and deserted fields of Cooperstown, New York.

Summer lights on the beach…’tis an ugly political season once again…and I skip with lanterns in the sand, eating hush puppies and crab meat, turning my face to the wind…breathing water and salt and silence.

I will not tread on trouble.

Most have read only the cover and introduction of things. There are many voices. No one truly knows the inner content.

I will not tread on trouble.

Eli’s morning statement: ‘You and I have to figure out how to handle Friday, Saturday and Sunday…the weekend…you know, we’re like horses let out of the corral’. I nod my head. He continues. ‘We need discipline and we don’t like discipline…you and me’. I nod my head. ‘We’re looking for the fifth leg of the cat, you know’. I nod, confused. I ask, ‘the fifth leg of the cat?’ He nods vigorously. ‘You know…the impossible…we’re looking for the impossible’. I nod. ‘The discipline, the ‘impossible’ or the cat?’ I wonder about these options out loud.

I’ve got horses, a cat with five legs…the concept of discipline. I’m not sure where I am in the conversation. ‘We need our ducks in a row’ he continues. So now, we’re off of the cats and horses, the mysterious fifth leg…and we find ourselves onto ducks. I reach into the bakery bag, the thing which started this whole conversation and grab a fresh, hot, salty pretzel dog. I take a bite.

‘Quack!’ I respond…

At approximately 2:30am, the heavens opened a window and threw a large bucket of water out over us. The deluge was short-lived, a thundering cavalcade across the roof and up against windows. I awakened, heard the sound and thought dreamily, ‘Oh good, this will break up the heat’.

The hot weather yesterday was beastly. Not monstrous like the western reddened land; burning up, lung searing, buried bones in crusted sand heat; the southwest endures that sort of furnace. No. Heat in the northeast is the kind which makes one stand at the end of the driveway, arms akimbo and say things such as ‘huh’ and ‘wait until February’. That sort of heat sets us back a pace or two. We don’t fight it. We don’t join it. We just wait.

On westward trips to South Dakota, as children our Mother admonished us, ‘Don’t fight it, it will only make you hotter’. In response we wailed, ‘But the seatbelt buckles are branding our legs!’ ‘Shhh…stop moving around so much. It only makes you hotter’. We hollered, ‘But look, the whole box of crayons has completely melted’. ‘Shhh…read a book, crank open the windows, be quiet and accept it’.

So now, as adults…freed from the searing buckles and the melted crayon wax, we handle the heat by going back inside the house. In the afternoon, we look out the living room window. The street is empty. There are a lot of children in this neighborhood. They will come out later when it cools down.

I haven’t seen our neighbors who live behind us for days, it seems. At twilight, I observe her with dog and family together, creep quietly out of the house and head up the sidewalk. The dog, a hugely furry husky looks bedraggled and generally disappointed with life. I wave and say, ‘Hello! How are you?’ ‘Oh, okay’…she sighs. ‘We’re finding things to do’. I nod and chuckle. ‘Huh’ I offer. She responds, ‘Huh’ and then they wander away, the dog still grieving his fate along the length of the heated sidewalk…

Notes on gravity and all things science…or not: when at the end of a long day, there is a bench in the hotel foyer which looks as if it is meant to be sat on…and under the end padded section of the bench, there is actually only air…and one is really tired…and one sits down on padded air…suddenly…wham! The floor is breached with panache and gumption.

The owner of the hotel comes running. The desk clerk comes running. A guest with a large dog comes running. A couple just entering the hotel observes that I am seated on the floor waiting to greet them.

The owner helped me up. The desk clerk, guest with dog, the couple…and others lingering in the area all slowly disappeared.

I’m fine.

Now, I’m going swimming. Wish me luck.

We grew more and more reluctant to leave our home as summer commenced, spending time instead moving slowly around the furniture, looking out the windows, cleaning out cupboard drawers and hidden shelving, folding laundry, or curled up in bed with stacks of books and documentaries about historical events long past.

We hid in the sanctuary of smaller spaces. The world outside loomed large and full of foolishness and malcontent. We had long since tired of it all.

Upon reflection one evening as the shadows moved languidly across the edges of the porch and the quiet energy of the neighborhood folded in on itself in early sleep, he stated it plainly. ‘Well, we tried this year. And we will keep on trying until we are finished. We all tried. We ran and will continue to run head on into the intractable system’.

Mid summer, in the heart of buttery sunshine…watching a neighbor teach his small son to ride a bike while knowing that the bee on the porch will not sting. The fat striped insect is drunk with sun and pollen and July air. He weaves and wobbles around the flowers, buzzing half heartedly.

I hear from the street, ‘Drift and hit the pedals, drift and hit the pedals…wrong driveway!’ The voices fade…

Who is wobbling? The bee? The child? Me?…

Next day…waking to the mournful sounds of geese coasting overhead. Overcast, grey…the mid-summer rains in the latter days of July are gentle and wisping. In these climes, in our northern land at the edge of the lake, winter keeps her finger on the pulse of summer.

Today she leans in with some stirring, a yawn…an eyelash flickers as she watches geese and fat bumblebees flitting and flying…disappearing over soaked ground, heading toward loaded raspberry bushes and the winds of August…

‘Hello there!’ Her voice boomed through the northern end of the phone…reminiscent of an early morning foghorn rolling out over the warm waters of the Currituck Sound. I moved the phone away from my ear. Glory.

‘Hi. I’d like to ask a couple of questions…’ ‘Absolutely, absolutely. I’m going to present all the information…ALL the information so you can be fully informed and it can be delivered to your house by Friday. I would NEVER leave you uninformed’. ‘I’…’I’…I was quickly cut off by the rumbling blast of the foghorn. ‘I’m going to explain it all to you RIGHT now’ she said. ‘And insurance will NOT cover any of this. It is 100% out of pocket. Out. Of. Pocket. You get what you pay for…you know that. You GET what you pay for’.

I placed the phone on the armrest, folded my hands and sat there as the diatribe began. She read from a script. Three times. I angled the phone and tried again…’what is the final cost? The monthly payment?’ She bellowed, ‘okay, I’ll go over it AGAIN…’ ‘No, I already have…’ but she was off…full sails, steaming ahead with great aplomb, determined to make it happen. She started in on the script a fourth time and then thought better of it…’And WHERE are you from?’ ‘I…I’m from New York’. ‘Oh!’ she sang out loudly. ‘I love my New Yorkers. I LOVE my New Yorkers. Upstate or the city?’ She paused for a mili-second and I jumped in. ‘Um, upstate’.

‘Fantastic!’ she roared, and proceeded with a comprehensive list of all the weather possibilities in our area, including hurricanes, but I couldn’t jump fast enough to correct her…for her ship’s bow was headed due north…stiff breezes blowing and there was no room for corrections. Hurricanes don’t appear in upstate, but the mealy truth was sacrificed for speed, zeal, nautical knots.

I noticed the armrest where I had placed the phone, vibrating ever so slightly as she surged forth again. ‘You are a marvelous daughter, an EXCELLENT daughter for calling about this. Did you know 85% of our calls are from daughters, looking out for parents? God bless you…’ ‘Well, I…that’s good…I…’ and she was back at it. Back on script. I looked wistfully at my note pad. I had all this information. I had jotted notes at the speed of sound in order to keep up. I HAD ALL this information but she was circling around again, preparing to dive bomb or perhaps run aground ( my nautical terms were confused by this point).

The sale would be made…it WOULD be made and it WOULD be at my house, at my very front door by Friday…by FRIDAY…for activation and follow through! By FRIDAY!…wasn’t it marvelous? The best! And did I remember I was a fantastic daughter?

I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the clock. 28 minutes. 28 minutes of my life. Gone. Lost at sea. Drowned. I spoke feebly. ‘I need to run this by my…’ the last life preserver was snatched away. ‘Oh no, no…we need to make this happen now…NOW…’

I sat back and looked out at my porch through the window. Dry land. There it was…precious, sacred…quiet dry land. I looked back at my exhausted phone, my eyes landing on the beautiful shiny red button at the southern end of the device. End call. I picked up the phone and stared at the screen…mad sounds roared out through the device…no, she would never stop. She was moving toward the gathering of financial information. Wouldn’t I just help her out by telling her whether or not I was using a debit or credit card? The water rushed in, breakers pulling me under…I was up against her shoals of sound…

I picked up the phone and pressed the blessed red button. In an instant…her ship sank beneath waves of silence…