“Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather,” wrote English writer and philosopher John Ruskin.
On this unseasonably cold day, it is a different kind of good weather at the summer house, and I wonder where the warmth went.
All summer the sun was a torch, singeing these three tiny streets by the sea in our little corner of New England. Yet what seems like a blink of an eye, October brought her pounding rains and plummeting temperatures, drawing us inside while lamenting season’s end.
But Ruskin is right. Fogland beckons no matter the weather; and with this kind of thinking, it is always a fun day at the beach.
Gathering inside the summer house offers new perspective. After cranking up the thermostat, I sit by the window, taking in the view from the inside out.
Quintessentially New England, the foliage is tinted in shades of reds, yellows, browns and greens, as the leaves levitate in the brisk breeze.
Despite the windows being closed, one can still hear the soughing of the sea, which is the rhythm of life in these parts.
In a space like this, quiet permeates everything; and the senses discern the tinniest sounds from a gull’s distant cry to the buzz of a bee.
The violet morning glories cling perilously to the porch, wrapping around the railings, holding on for dear life.
I hear the sound of a hammer reverberating, as a workman dangles from staging on the peak of a three-story house, replacing shingles from a recent storm.
But most of my neighbors are tucked inside. I see no cars passing by, although I spot a woman walking her little white dog as she braves the constant wind.
Then a violent sound eclipses the solitude. My husband starts the lawn mower, which blocks out everything. The noise is deafening, but the intrusion is necessary. After the rains this past week, the lawn mushroomed.
Getting up, I grab the afghan my mother made from the back of the couch and wrap myself in its comforting warmth.
Reaching up, I slide a book off the shelf.
Another fun day at the beach…
