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Working in the world of education, even on the fringe like I do, has its advantages, one of them being summer vacation. While we have the option to work during the summer, this year finds me taking the time off instead. And it finds me thinking of things to do for the next two months to make sure that the time is well spent. I’ve made a mental “to-do” list, things that I can get done around here, as well as an actual list of writing prompts I’ve thought up to keep my chops up. It occurred to me that when you’re a kid and you leave school on that long awaited last day, you don’t worry about stuff like that. You have all the time in the world. You don’t need to make plans to keep yourself busy or “productive.” You just live in the moment, each day, doing whatever for as long as summer lasts. Never worried about “being productive.” That got me thinking about those days of my own youth and how we spent our summers. I grew up in the village of North Chemung which is several miles outside the city of Elmira, New York. Some of you probably know it better by it’s historical and fictional name, “Hammond’s Corners.” Growing up there, the world, hell, the county seemed such an enormous place. Our world, though, was small back then; limited to where our bicycles could take us, which rarely more than a mile from the center of town. That suited us fine since everything we needed was right there anyhow. The two main roads through town converged into a “T.” Just a stone’s throw from there stood the United Methodist Church and the former schoolhouse which was turned into a small country store a few decades before. Each building served as the social hub of sorts for the town, but it was the store, open seven days a week, that saw the most activity. It was where you looked for your friends first if they weren’t home. If you’d made a dollar picking up cans or saved your quarters from running to the store for a neighbor, you could treat yourself to a comic book and still have change for a popsicle or maybe some penny candy. The village was, and still is, surrounded by hillsides and creeks where the occasional ramshackle fort was built,constructed of scrap wood, plastic, and any other materials that could be scavenged. In the creeks we built dams that rivaled the efforts of the local beaver population, sometimes jumping in to cool off from the heat of the day. Hours were spent on dirt piles, building intricate roads and tunnels for our Matchbox cars to travel. BMX rides and races were held on homemade tracks in the woods and roadside ditches. Games of hide and seek, football, baseball and much more. There was a hundred things to do any given day and we did our best to do them. Sometimes we did nothing at all. Once in a while, military skirmishes of great importance were fought in a nearby pine forest. The group was divided up into teams and then dispersed througout the area and, after an agreed upon time, the fight was on. Of course back then, kids could carry very realistic looking toy guns without setting off a national panic and we stalked each other with our plastic M16s and pistols tucked into Army surplus camouflage clothing. The game worked on an honor system of sorts, wherein the would be shooter would be required to positively identify their target before loudly proclaiming, “BANG! I GOT YOU _____,” before tearing off elsewhere, lest the hunter become the prey. The “deceased” was required to then return to a home base of sorts to sit out the remainder of the war. And shit got serious out there too; young soldiers went to great lengths to blend in with their surroundings. Foliage from the area was jammed into hats and belts. Snipers were buried by their comrades in pine needles and other debris, like a living brushpile, but pretend-deadlier. We had real winters bck then, which meant ticks weren’t a concern and Lyme disease was something that only affected that years’ citrus crop. If we’d made arrangements in advance, we wouldn’t have to come in when the porch light came on. Many a summer night was spent sleeping outdoors, either in a pup tent in someone’s back yard or, as we got older and more daring, in the woods somewhere. We’d stay up talking late into the night about the usual adolescent topics, as well as hunting, fishing and such. Occasionally the talk turned to current events; would we be drafted to fight the Soviets should World War Three break out tomorrow as it did in the movie “Red Dawn?” In the morning we’d be up and on our way home for breakfast and ready to start a whole new day, a whole new adventure. As often happens, we grew up, we got bigger and our world did too. We got jobs, drivers licenses and cars which meant we could spread our wings. Suddenly a trip “to town” wasn’t a special event, it was an average day. We’d still gather for a pickup game of football or hockey games on the pond behind the fire station, but over time those too dwindled. Funny, there was never any sense or recognition that this was it, that this period of our life was over. We just sort of faded away, one by one, like you see in the movies, as we went out on our own and Chris Sherwood writes from his home in North Chemung. He is the author of the In Times of Trouble trilogy, a post-apocalyptic series set in Upstate New York, and is currently working on the third book in the trilogy. To learn more, go to cmsherwood.com

A summer-time bite of crisp, cold watermelon, or a yummy slice of Persian cantaloupe spells luscious to me. So does a grilled hot dog eaten while sitting around a campfire. And too, a lettuce-y green salad mixed with pecans, chick peas, cucumber, and tomatoes. Luscious!! Here we are in mid-summer, though the yoyoing weather has been July-ish since May! Yes, we have had drenching rains that have created mini-rainforests. And the temperatures have risen to dangerous levels a month early. Tornadoes have been in places that have usually been safe from them and flooding has brought heavy grief. Despite all the dire things that do happen, and those that could happen, there is still luscious-living to be had --- sometimes. The beauty all around us --- trees, flowers, swamps, creeks and rivers, the many cloud patterns and hues of the skies. It is like that quote: “There is always, always something for which we can be grateful.” Even in the midst of hard times and tragedy. For gardeners, it is biennial season. The spring perennials (peonies, old-fashioned roses, gas plant, etc.) have finished blossoming. A few lilies, are starting to bloom, but it is too early for asters and chrysanthemums. If you have biennials, though, your garden is still colorful with hollyhocks, columbine, fox glove, campanula, etc. And the roadsides are very floral with wild parsnip, Queen Anne’s Lace and chicory. There is beauty everywhere if we will only look around with a discerning eye. We had a garden surprise a few weeks ago. At one time, I had grown foxtail lilies that bloom in early June; very tall stalks with tiny flowers making a very tall and full cone shape. After a couple of years, I decided they were too ostentatious and not quite hardy enough for my garden, and allowed them to fade away and die. Imagine my surprise when this June, two or three years after not having them, a white foxtail lily showed up many yards away from where they had been planted before. I assume some bird, grateful for birdfeeders, replanted it for me. Interesting --- odd ---- things are always happening in the garden. July is, for many, vacation time, and for some, camping season. I’ve written about some of our dubious experiences when accompanying Kerm to 4-H camp; the 1972 flood in Pennsylvania’s “Grand Canyon”, a foggy ice storm at Crystal Lake. But we also camped as a family. It was an inexpensive way to travel---- and mostly fun. I understand that campground prices, as well as state and national park prices have gone way up, along with everything else. However, it is probably still less costly than a night at a decent but dull, motel. Camping took us over quite a bit of New England, Pennsylvania, Washington DC, the Adirondacks, and Catskills. Some years ago (maybe when we were in our late 50s) Kerm and I put up our tent in the back yard just to see if we should keep it or get rid of it. It was a little battered but still useable. After a night on mattresses, we were in total agreement ---- get rid of the tent! Our backs did not have a good night at all and getting upright in the morning was truly an adventure. Our tent-camping days were over! If we currently choose to experience the wilderness, we will be in a nice, rustic cabin with comfortable beds; beds, not on the floor, and inside bathroom facilities. There are things that I miss. There is the clear, fresh, air when first unzipping the tent in the morning. There is the resinous smell of pine and fir, sap mellowed by the sunny days. There’s the wonderful fragrance of a campfire, and the skies, spangled with so many stars. In the quiet of the night, the owls hoot and perhaps, off in the distance, a coyote sings. Camping has stored away a collection of memories that I can call into my mind, and riffle through at any time. And my back remains happy. Now, there is “glamping!” A friend, and a couple of his college buddies, have, for many years, scheduled two camping trips/year in the scenic Adirondacks. They regularly canoed across a sometimes-turbulent lake to reach a camping site --- beautiful, but lacking amenities. However, as they have, umm, matured, their camping has evolved from the arduous trek mentioned above, to renting a cabin, complete with cots, on the road-side of the lake shore. No rowing necessary; only gentle canoeing. And that sort of camping is now called glamor-camping, or glamping. Unless you are in Outward Bound, camping isn’t about enduring ---- it is about joy of being surrounded by nature, and unless you camp alone, it is about community. It is making memories and nourishing friendships, and staying in touch. It us times of laughter and good feelings whether the community is family or friends. Speaking of community, when Kerm and I were first married, we lived close to Washington DC, and had very little community. He had his fellow-grad students, and I had my co-workers, but none were close friendships. During our ten years in Pennsylvania, we had a church-full of friends; some closer than others, of course. And Kerm’s job with 4-H brought us more good people to make our lives rewarding. When we left there for the Catskills, I had “separation trauma” that left me unable to get settled in our new home; boxes sat around for weeks. But eventually, we made some super-good friends there, mostly via Marriage Encounter. However, 45 years in Spencer have given us full opportunity to be a true part of the community. Participation in church, school, writing groups, various S-VE activities --- Breakfast Club, Garden Club, Pond Project, Grange dinners, Pancake breakfasts, Food Pantry, an Ad-Lib acting group, and music all draw people together. And we truly fit here. Sadly, I have noticed that volunteering/participating in community activities, has dwindled with younger people. They are staying home with their families (and phones) and are much more insular. We generally took our boys with us as we participated in things, and I think it left them feeling good about being part of a group. They may not always have chosen, at the time, our activities. I remember when Matt was running the sound system for one of our variety shows. I glanced over and saw him holding his head and shaking it, as puns and “creative” dialogue came from his father and his piano teacher, on stage. I expect he hoped none of his friends were watching. But he endured and I can’t see that it scarred him too much. I’ve dragged Shawn into demonstrating some martial arts for my Sunday school, and speaking for the garden club. He seems to have survived. And occasionally, they are both good material for these essays! Although, I do try to be a bit discreet. 😊 Community---- we help each other! We all have choices about our lives. I’ve noticed that my attitude toward those choices can lighten or make a burden heavier. I can allow myself to exist very easily in a rut. It may be a fur-lined comfy rut, but it is confining; smothering without interruptions and changes. Living with few outside influences makes a rut a rut --- no matter how comfortable. If you’ve read The Hobbit *(and if you haven’t you should!), you know that getting outside exposure and change was looked upon with disfavor among the Hobbits. Tradition was safe and respectable! However, when one or two Hobbits made their way to the outside world, with all its dangers and beauty, made new friends and faced sometimes difficult choices, life broadened and became more meaningful. And the Hobbits grew in their understanding and their perceptions. It is the same with us. We can be limited by our up-bringing, our family members, our small groups of co-workers or friends and miss a whole wonderful life of newness and adventure. There is a time for rocking on the porch and a time for holding a picket sign. July is a month of plenty. Luscious living can mean many different things to each of us, from cantaloupes and early sweet corn, to looking at each day’s sunrise with new hope and renewed trying one’s best to live fully. There is sitting around a camp fire and creating a mental album of memories. There is volunteering at the Food Pantry and seeing smiling children looking at their box of food, and there is being appreciative of our own quirks and the quirks of our long-time friends and neighbors, and realizing what a blessing good community can be. Of course, there will be bad days, but we just can’t let the bad days win. I’ve always liked the photos of the farm-to-table dinners, all those long tables filled with smiling people, and the quotation that often goes with those illustrations: “If you have more, don’t build a taller fence to keep others out; build a longer table so everyone can enjoy being together.” Live luscious and have a great July. Carol Bossard writes from her home in Spencer. She may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net. *The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien ---British writer and philologist. He is most famous for The Hobbit and The trilogy of The Rings. 1892-1973.

I can’t swim. Oh, I took lessons at the Boys Club in Clifton, NJ… learned to float and doggy paddle. I loved playing in the water with my siblings and cousins at Green Pond, a lake in northwestern New Jersey where my aunt and uncle had a cottage. Didn’t even mind being in water way over my head. There, in the safe swimming section, we’d jump off the dock or have our dad toss us over his shoulder into the deep water. I loved it! But then… I almost drowned. I was either 10 or 11. Our family had driven out to the lake for a day of fun. And here I was laying across a ski board tethered by rope to my uncle’s boat. I was either very brave or very foolish, but found myself being pulled across the water clinging to that board, enjoying the ride! Until the boat took a fast turn… and the wake caught me off guard. The board flipped over, hit me on the head, and I lost my grip. Flailing furiously in the water, I tumbled over and over, struggling to hold my breath, trying to break the surface for air when I felt something under my feet… all in a matter of some very long seconds. Planting my feet down, I stood up and dared to open my eyes… shocked and absolutely relieved to find I was chest deep in water, standing on a very large rock or ledge in the “middle” of the lower end of the large lake! I was so sure I would drown while flailing around… instead, I was safe! Trauma clicked in later. I cannot float, nor can I swim. I sink. Don’t even try to teach me… Ed tried when we were dating, and he quickly found out my panic was very real when he let go of me in the deep end of the pool. I still need to wear floaties to enjoy being in the water. I’ve long realized I was held in the arms of God that day decades ago. No one dreamed there would possibly be a rock or ledge with shallow water out there. My father watched from the shore with his heart in his throat, afraid for my life. But he never told me that until decades later. This incident reminds me of how we are loved and held safe in the arms of not only God, but the arms of our family. As a helpless infant, we are tenderly held and kept safe in our parents’ arms. As we grow up, their loving arms are still there… ready to protect us and guide us. Then, all too soon we’re ready to leave the nest and fly off into the world on our own. At some point between thinking we know it all and realizing we don’t, we bring the wisdom we’ve learned back to our aging parents, understanding what it was they tried to teach us as we now teach our children… and find we’ve come full circle. And therein I see the arms of God… holding and caring for us, teaching and guiding us… accepting us for who we are because He created us and knows who we are meant to be. Safe In My Arms Linda A. Roorda From the very moment that you came to be You were held safe, safe in my arms A helpless babe, you looked up to me Your needs were met with love undivided. ~ When you fell down and bruised your ego You came running to comforting arms You looked for me to answer concerns Questions of life with wisdom to gain. ~ But as you grew you looked to yourself I wasn’t needed, not so much anymore You thought you held the keys to life’s goals As facing forward you met the world’s pace. ~ And then one day you understood all The depths of love and sacrificial gifts Your arms reached out to hold me secure To share with me wisdom you had gained. ~ Is it not true full circle we’ve come From infant small to adult mature And is it not true the life we have lived Is mirrored within God’s love for us all. ~ For didn’t His arms hold tightly our life That when we fell He gently restored And when we stood alone on life’s stage We were held safe, safe in His arms. ~~