Last week, to kick off Pride Week in Albany, and to benefit the New York Capital Region Chapter of GLSEN, there was a Great Gatsby Formal Party at 74 State. Even Andy donned a suit, and our friend JoAnn came in from Massachusetts to join us. Given the intense heat (it was 95 degrees the day of the party), I opted out of the elaborately-layered look I originally planned (long-sleeved shirt, vest, suspenders, bow-tie) and kept it simple with a short-sleeved polo shirt beneath a pink linen Brooks Brothers jacket. Sometimes, even for me, weather and comfort trumps fashion. Extreme heat and extreme cold will sway my sartorial choices more than the advice of friends.
I did keep the straw boater hat though, because some things were made to stand up to the heat. The leather half-chaps were also non-negotiable, as they were the key to my cross between Jay Gatsby and Tom Buchanan. Everyone assumed I’d go as Daisy, but I’ve never been that predictable.
Behold the Korean lilac. While smaller in stature and flower than its New England counterpart, this one blooms just after they finish up, and lingers a little bit longer (if temperatures aren’t in the 90’s). For that reason, among others, I find them invaluable. Their smaller leaves are more refined, but do not be fooled by their delicate appearance – they are hardier and less susceptible to mildew than the natives. The blooms are decidedly on the pink side, and the fragrance is just as strong as the traditional lilac, but with a slightly sweeter lilt.
These can be trained into small tree form (I once saw an exquisite specimen done in this manner beside a church. Drawn first to the fragrance, I looked around for a while before realizing its somewhat unassuming smaller flower sprays were the source of such perfume.)
Mine remain as bushes, imbuing the backyard with their potent olfactory effect. Plant them in a bright sunny spot where they can be appreciated, near the doorway or by the pool, to maximize enjoyment.
It usually sneaks up on me. I always intend to make a big splash of it, and end up forgetting all intentions in the excitement, and heat, of the moment. This year was no different, as I can’t quite recall when I first jumped into the pool. Surely it’s documented somewhere, perhaps on Instagram (no, I’m kidding, believe it or not my visage has yet to appear on that account – really!) But there are other summers that have already been captured, some well before Instagram was a glimmer in anyone’s iPhone. Check them out here: Summer.
The end of my first year at Brandeis. Back in Amsterdam for the summer. The girl I was dating thought I was a better man than I would ever be. I knew it. She would come to know it, years later, but I couldn’t show her that then. I tried. I think I tried. Maybe we were just pretending though, both of us.
In the days leading up to that summer, in the messy fumblings of backseats, in grass cool and wet with dew, we thought we could find a way into each other, into the hearts that would carry us far into the future, together. We would only have that one summer. The spring was already going. We held onto it as we held onto each other, hoping it would last, even though we somehow knew it couldn’t. The magic of a spring night is fleeting at best, never to be captured for very long.
Oh yes I love you, but today I could hate you, I could hurt you
Cause were joined at the heart
Beats faster, hits harder than a boxer whenever we are apart
Body language is an S.O.S. I don’t understand how our fight starts,
Not enough to believe in love, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know where we’ve gone wrong
How long will it take to get used to me?
How long will it take to get used to me?
Don’t wait that long, won’t wait that long
No we won’t wait that long, don’t wait that long…
In the very earliest hours of dawn, I’d drop her off at her house. There was already light in the sky. A foggy haze, damp clover, the startled eyes of a deer, and me pulled off on the side of the back road, sitting behind the steering wheel listening to this song and wanting to cry for everything we did not know. The beauty of the morning made me ache. Have you ever been so happy, so bursting with joy, that it veers wildly off into sadness, skidding recklessly into a messy patch of tears, your body convulsing with passion and pain it hadn’t known needed emptying?
But the sun was coming up, the fog was burning off, the birds were starting to sing. The world was awakening like it always did, and one young man running off helplessly into a field wouldn’t ruffle feathers that simply flew higher. I pull the car back onto the road. The corn is just beginning its fountain-like ascent. Rows and rows of it, neatly parallel on mounds of dirt, run beside the car, waving their green strands in my wake. I am driving directly into the sun ~ into the summer ~ and not bothering to slow down.
After months (years?) of hemming and hawing, hearing persuasive arguments made by friends mostly for it, and a final inspirational shove by Madonna, I’ve succumbed to joining Instagram (because what I really need is another social media time-consumer). Luckily, while my time online may seem voluminous, it is deceptively so. I make a decent number of FaceBook posts and Tweets (and now, perhaps, Instagram shots), but they literally take a few seconds, then I’m off. An hour later I’ll check and do the same, and then I’m off again. Those who get distracted by games and a zillion other apps may find their time eaten up in such a manner, but I’ve been lucky enough to stay relatively focused and break away from the internet whenever necessary. Like when there are gardening chores to be done ~ an unruly viburnum to be pruned, a Japanese umbrella pine to be transplanted, and potted annuals to be fed. To that end, I’m heading into the yard. Pics on Instagram to follow…
As we ease into the summer season – and the 90 degree weather – there’s not much to be done but swimming and pruning and manscaping. Follow Tom Daley’s lead.
Our time in Ogunquit had come to an end, and like a curtain being closed on the first act of a musical, it drew its sun-flecked spring foliage around its enchantments and disappeared into our rear-view mirrors. But since it was just the first act, there are two more to come – what with an extra summer trip for our friends’ wedding, and the closing act in fall. So while we bid adieu to Maine, it’s only a temporary good-bye.
That makes leaving only slightly easier to bare, especially as the weather made a turn for the better just as our time was up.
At least we had lilacs.
Loads of lilacs, spilling forth from branches that seemed to descend from the sky, perfuming our walks and teasing our noses with their sweet aroma.
The scent of paradise has passed, another spring draws to its close. Summer will soon ensue.
This furry creature was found as I made my way to a secret garden path. Based on its small size, it looked like a young squirrel, not yet skittish around humans, as it posed happily and patiently for these photos. I walked along further, and found this feather – another sign that I was on the right road. The universe has always erected such sign-posts; they’re there if you pause and observe what’s around you. It’s so easily, and quickly, lost in the daily machinations of living, the distractions of everything that doesn’t really matter, and I’m the first one to follow the flash of a falling feather. In cases like this, though, that’s exactly what I should have done.
A week ago we were still in Ogunquit, and the sun had finally come out. I hastened to the Marginal Way – after three days of rain, you take the first bit of sun and run with it, in case it might not show itself again. When that initial glimpse of blue sky appeared, it was a revelation. It turns out I needn’t have worried or rushed, as the sun deigned to linger for the rest of our time in that fair seaside town. These photos were taken later in the day, when the light was slanting down from the West – a few moments shy of the golden hour.
Here are some of the rewards from putting up with all of last weekend’s rain. If you love flowers as much as I do, it was well worth it. These beauties were blooming in Ogunquit on our last visit, beckoning the summer while hanging onto the spring. I especially like the unique variety of Muscari featured here – a frilly version of the more traditional grape hyacinth. Sometimes the hybridizers manage to do something both spectacular and delicate.
It’s not usually my style to favor function over form. Quite the opposite. (Platform shoes, corsets and capes aren’t exactly geared toward survival.) But once in a while, like on a rainy day in Maine, one must give up the fashion ghost, and don a bright yellow parka to make it through the wilderness. (Though if you ask me, I still think this rain slicker has a certain style to it. I got it from Sault last year, on an overcast day’s whim.)
Off the beaten path, with only a small sign to notify passers-by, the Ogunquit Heritage Museum is one of the better-kept secrets of this town. We happened upon it last year, taking a circuitous route home one day, and it beckoned to us through a line of oaks and maples. Hidden away, it doesn’t shout, or even announce, its presence so much as it waits in secret quiet. Though the hours it is open are scant (and I’ve never managed to find myself there when the museum itself was welcoming visitors), it’s the garden path that lies before it that is the main draw for me.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
~ Robert Frost
In a town crowded with the first flush of tourists, this is one spot where it is common to find sweet delicious solitude at any given time. It is also brimming with seemingly-forgotten woodland plants, rare finds like white bleeding hearts and great swaths of Trillium just past their peak. An unidentifiable yellow plant shakes its wet blooms free from the rain, its canopy of leaves protecting its pendulous hairy seed pods.
The path leads in a rough circle from the small red museum building out through the wooded area, then back to the small rise of steps leading into the building, framed by lilacs in full, fragrant bloom. On this visit, I am alone. Andy is resting back in the guesthouse.
Sitting on a bench beside the stand of faded Trillium, I am taken back to a snippet of memory I’m not even sure is mine. It is a glimpse of the spring forest in Vermont, near a covered wooden bridge. A red Wake Robin nods its crimson head in the breeze, a few feet away from the road and buffered by the trees. Then it is gone. The flower. The memory. The sunlight.
I never quite manage to share the sublime with anyone.
It’s been a while since I’ve dropped trou here (I challenge you to scroll back to find it – it will take a while), so here’s something to appease the two people who have been asking. Say what you will, gratuitous male nudity makes this site go around.
