My friend Rob believes that summer truly begins the moment he hears “Centerfield” by John Fogarty on the car radio and he can roll down his windows and jam to it. For me, summer begins with the first stone of the season being plunked into the lake by my beautiful, beautiful boy. This weekend, summer arrived.
And so did the allergies. Hayes has really been struggling this weekend with all sorts of pollen flying, visibly and invisibly, through the air. The cottonwood seems to be the worst culprit, covering the hills at the golf course with seeds that look like snow. He is so congested it sounds like he’s got mucus all the way down to his toes. And his poor little eyes are completely bloodshot by the end of the day. And as if that’s not enough, he’s developed a fever too, which he wouldn’t allow to slow him down yesterday, but required a two-hour nap this morning to get rejuvenated. It seems to have worked.
Right now we are enjoying being out by the lake, he throwing rocks, and I reflecting on the beauty of the lake, the generations of Gilberts that have come and gone, the passing on of the traditions and great loves of this place. I can’t imagine not coming here. I can’t imagine watching summer arrive and not heading to this personal paradise. I am so glad to have it. I am so lucky to have been born into this tradition.
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