Sunshine is delicious

“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…

Sunday best

 

Driving along country roads on a fall October day, I feel blessed to be a New Englander.

“The Summer comes and the Summer goes; / Wild-flowers are fringing the dusty lanes, / The swallows go darting through the fragrant rains, / Then, all of a sudden – it snows,” wrote nineteenth-century New Hampshire poet and travel writer Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

The leaves are beginning to turn, and my mind wanders back to childhood days when Sunday afternoons, especially those in autumn, were spent along back roads of neighboring towns.

Back then we abided by the Blue Laws, and business ceased. Consequently, Sunday was not just another day of the workweek.

At our house we followed a ritual that began early in the morning when we dressed in our Sunday best and went to church.

After service, my father would drive to the neighborhood store and buy a dozen sugar-dusted jelly doughnuts.

At home my mother set out the old brown teapot. With sticky fingers we held onto our teacup in one hand and the pastry in the other.

Right after breakfast, my mother and I put on one of my grandmother’s hand-sewn aprons and prepared a full-course Sunday dinner, consisting of soup, salad, entrée, vegetables, biscuits and dessert.

Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, we went on a Sunday ride. Each week we headed in a different direction to destination unknown.

In the fall, we stopped at farm stands and harvest festivals, filling the trunk with pumpkins, chrysanthemums and jugs of apple cider.

The last stop was always at some out-of-the-way place for a double-scoop of ice cream.

Sunday evenings were quiet times, spent finishing up homework assignments and playing board games before we climbed into bed.

Today Sundays have evolved into just another workday, and many folks can no longer look forward to a day of rest. Family members are always missing when we gather around the table at home or at the summer house because they have to work.

We still begin the Lord’s Day in church and prepare an extra special Sunday dinner. But we rarely ride around the countryside.

Mostly, we relax, while reading or watching Red Sox or Patriots games.

But whenever I feel overworked and overwrought by the fast-paced lifestyle we live these days, I think back with nostalgia to quieter, simpler times when Sundays were best.