Haven’t seen any of those for a week, but last Saturday was the perfect Wisconsin almost-summer day. The sky was that blindingly brilliant blue that is so sharp it hurts your eyes. In the south, we like to call that color Carolina Blue, but in reality, the Wisconsin sky sort of out-does it. At least it did last week.
The temperature was in the mid-seventies. The wind was up, and so I was tricked into thinking the brown-red tone my skin gets from my Mediterranean heritage was was just my imagination. I had been clipping the low suckers off the trees in my sister’s yard so I could mow closer without getting my corneas scratched. I then hauled the bountiful armloads of branches across a deep clover field to a burn pile, my feet dragging through the grass trip after trip.
The dogs were out running their traps, the little ones chasing each other and nipping ankles, each other’s and mine, and the “mothership,” Rosie, was standing with her nose to the wind. Brush collected, I found a spot under a maple, laid down right in the grass. I watched the leaves flutter and the branches bend above my head. Before too long, I had a puppy laying on my head and another tucked under my arm. It’s been a very, very long time since I let myself go like I did that afternoon. It was simply glorious.