A cool start to "summer"

On the first full day of "summer" the mid-afternoon temperature is 60℉ and tonight's low is forecast to be 45℉. Yesterday's rain totaled up to about ½ an inch, not enough to offset the abnormally dry conditions. Despite the bizarre weather, we enjoyed a wonderful Father's Day -- Solstice, although we never did manage to work in a celebratory fire, since we spent the afternoon and evening at the home of the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and new daughter(to them)/granddaughter (to us). Our Grandpa's day present was a "finger" painting by someone only eight months old. Her style looks like a cross between Monet and Jackson Pollack.

In two weeks we'll be celebrating Independence Day and some will be wondering how the first half of the year got away from us. Whoever came up with the idea that "there's no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing" (or something like that) probably never tried to cast a dry fly in a 20 mph "breeze" or a true downpour. The volatility of the first half of this year's weather has made it challenging to figure out what to do when, or even if it's worth "giving it a shot." Plus, we've become excessively sedentary during our COVID avoidance year and need to shake off our inertia more than we have. Perhaps now might be a good time to move a little faster and see if we can recapture some of our boyhood pleasures. No need to make acting like a grandpa a full-time job.

Baltimore oriole on grape jelly feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

We took a peek in the "bluebird" nesting box in the back yard. It looks as though tree swallows have successfully fledged a brood. At least no one seemed to be at home when we lowered the front panel and aggravated parents didn't attack our head while we were inspecting the interior. We hope that next year bluebirds will be back and take first possession. There's a nesting house on a pole on the hill for the swallows. This year we've seen nary a bluebird nor a scarlet tanager. We do, however, have several Baltimore oriole and rose-breasted grosbeak and ruby-throated hummingbird families nesting somewhere around the house, plus the usual cast of characters of nuthatches, chickadees, blue jays and American goldfinches.

The Barefoot Boy

By John Greenleaf Whittier

Blessings on thee, little man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lip, redder still 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 

Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace; 

From my heart I give thee joy,— 

I was once a barefoot boy! 

Prince thou art,—the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy 

In the reach of ear and eye,— 

Outward sunshine, inward joy: 

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 

Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 

Knowledge never learned of schools, 

Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild-flower’s time and place, 

Flight of fowl and habitude 

Of the tenants of the wood; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 

And the ground-mole sinks his well; 

How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine; 

Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 

Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Face to face with her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy,— 

Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood’s time of June, 

Crowding years in one brief moon, 

When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master, waited for. 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 

Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Plied the snouted mole his spade; 

For my taste the blackberry cone 

Purpled over hedge and stone; 

Laughed the brook for my delight 

Through the day and through the night, 

Whispering at the garden wall, 

Talked with me from fall to fall; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 

Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine, on bending orchard trees, 

Apples of Hesperides! 

Still as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too; 

All the world I saw or knew 

Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 

Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread; 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone, gray and rude! 

O’er me, like a regal tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 

Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 

Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 

While for music came the play 

Of the pied frogs’ orchestra; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch: pomp and joy 

Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 

Though the flinty slopes be hard, 

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 

Every morn shall lead thee through 

Fresh baptisms of the dew; 

Every evening from thy feet 

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 

All too soon these feet must hide 

In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod, 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 

Up and down in ceaseless moil: 

Happy if their track be found 

Never on forbidden ground; 

Happy if they sink not in 

Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 

Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 

Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

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