Cue Summer

There is not enough closet space in our cabin to accommodate our seasonal wardrobes, that is, our separate fall/winter and spring/summer collections. I feel like a putz mentioning it. How many sweaters or cotton shirts does one person need? If we could simply divest ourselves of three-quarters of our clothing, we’d have enough closet space to remain comfortably and semi-fashionably dressed year-round. But that’s the thing: we have a problem divesting. I wouldn’t say we hoard, which, to me, would imply we are also obsessive gatherers; I haven’t purchased a new shirt in, well, years. Instead we save. We keep. My flannel shirts, when they come back to me each fall after banishment to self-storage, return with my remembrances. They are not simply articles of clothing, they are vaults, holding the passage of time. But this year, this season, unfortunately, it has been announced that one of those flannels may have nothing more to give after thirty years. Holes in both elbows, a collar so frayed it is nearly detached from the whole garment. My wife has said it is time to say goodbye. It may already be gone. (I have not dared look carefully to see if it has come up from the laundry, where some clothes go to die.)

Anyway, it has been a turnover season of false starts because of the recurring cold and wet conditions. The flannel shirts, wool sweaters and corduroys got to enjoy a few extra weeks at home as we gradually reintroduced the light sweaters and khakis. Then, suddenly, the push was on to swap out everything and the flip-flops rocketed to the top of the shoe pile.

Was there spring? I would say there were spring days. The daffodils came up, the leaves appeared, the mud eventually abated, all causes for some celebration. But spring is a reluctant actor here, with a walk-on role. It has no dramatic lines. It is given instructions to cross the stage with a placard for the audience to see that reads SPRING, while the action goes on behind it.

I was keen to plant strawberries this season, which enjoy cool weather. I bought the first batch locally. They looked dry on opening and, ultimately, proved dead after a couple of weeks in the ground. I followed up by sourcing replacements online, which took over three weeks to get here, by FedEx! In all, about five weeks of anticipation. On the day the new batch arrived, looking only slightly more viable than the last, the temperature had shot to eighty from the previous mid-sixties, and subsequently, increased to the nineties. I should have waited until fall. But one can be lulled into thinking summer will never arrive, what with the cool, wet weather lingering. What a difference a day can make.

So summer, in sandals and a toga, stormed in right on cue, making a grand entrance with record heat. Uncanny. Someone knows their business. It is not going to help my strawberries, but the beans and zucchini are applauding, along with the tomatoes.

Ah well, I am glad to have my shorts back, outfitted with remembrances of their own. A light-weight favorite for hiking arrived with a pocketful of last season’s dog cookies. The pair I wore to my brother’s for cocktails over the weekend held a five-dollar bill. Even a summer shirt I slipped on this morning had something to share: a packet of those plastic dental picks I always find useful

As I say, they are vaults.