Tuesday, June 7, 2011
I hate to say it, but if you're a Jan firster, as to where the calendar should begin, this is the fold of the book, where the ever-changing main character reaches her prime, and as the old lyric from Carousel goes, June is bustin' out all over. How do we love thee, June? We begrudge thee not thy boon jugs--sorry, thy june bugs--mosquitoes, fireflies, summer storms, sizzle and steam. And wherefore cometh these thees, anyway? Because we do dress up for June, fuss around it, play the fool at the wedding, flay the pool (the backstroke) at the wetting, sing ridiculously romantic songs, and then feel like we overdid it a bit, maybe, afterwards. But the strawberries! The strawberry shortcake and bluegrass music at Russell Orchards, outside of Ipswich. And maybe somewhere there's still a bobolink around. (I know where: Fred and Judy's meadow behind their home in Sherburne, NY, on that hilltop road--New Turnpike--that you have to get lost to find.) And rhubarb! Strawberry rhubarb pie--the essence of June. Soon, in July, there will be the beginning of tree fatigue. The foot can be lifted off the accelerator and we can coast to the coast of Maine or Oregon, see Atlantic puffins or tufted puffins. A long slow coast to the coast of autumn. But not yet, we're only at the fold of the book!