Y'all may have noticed that the blogging has been light these days. With the heat and all, I'm on hiatus. Been more interested in sitting in the shade, sipping iced tea, than reading the news. Oh sure, I'm still keeping up. I know about the John Roberts thing, the shuttle, the new Governor General, Intelligent Design, and the possibility of J-Lo being knocked up. I know about these things, but I'm too languid to care.

When I was a kid, I never felt humidity. At the end of May, dad would pack us into the car and drive us up to The Cottage for the summer. The air was clean and crisp up in the mountains. It didn't matter that school didn't let out for another three weeks - dad never bothered his head about such things. So the three of us, and later the four of us (Nana moved in when I was four) and the dog would pile into the old Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon (with woody panelling, of course) and set out to the most wonderful place in the world.

I grew up in a Greek neighborhood. I was almost fluent by the time I was six (and have forgotten every word of it now), because it was the only way to have any friends. But my bestest, bestest friends were at The Cottage. They were the daughters of my dad's two good friends, who had all bought adjoining plots of land on which to build their dream houses. Those men didn't drag their families up so early in the season, coming only on weekends till the start of July. But it didn't bother me too much. There was always something to do. My mother was busy in the house, getting it opened and cleaned for the season, so I could help with the chores. Dad worked midnights in the city, but was around during the day, splitting kindling and doing whatever odd jobs needed doing. And something always needed doing. It was especially exciting when the wheelbarrow was involved, because he'd push me around in it if I tagged along to the sandpile up the road. Of course, there was also my imaginary friend, Cindy, to keep me company when I was bored (ah, the joys of being an only child - it so expands ones imagination). And on Friday evenings I would sit on the hill at the end of our drive and I would listen. Everything was so still and so quiet that when my friends' cars would pull onto the lake road, I would hear them coming from three miles away. To this day I'm still very alert when walking a country road, always able to tell how far away a car is, and what side of the road it's travelling on.

The smell of The Cottage is what I remember best. A mix of moist black earth, strawberries, and pine. With a faint undertone of algae from the lake. When I die, Heaven will smell like that for me. When I die, and go to Heaven, not only will it smell like The Cottage, but that beloved home of mine will have risen from its ashes to welcome me to the Kingdom of God.

Well, nowadays, with no Cottage, and stuck in the city, I try to make the best of it. I still get up for work every day, and toil my hours as need be, but the television stays off for the most part. I've put away the deep and important political books and tales of global terrorism. Instead, I've dug out mystery novels, and biographies of cheap Hollywood starlets. I'd rather laugh than scowl. It's hard to be serious in this heat.

So I'll leave the bulk of the ranting and raving to those who are enjoying it more, and who are better suited to it. For now, I'll just enjoy this iced tea, and maybe take a stroll with the dog. It's summertime. The livin' is easy.