You’ve passed the divide from city to country the moment the heavy scent of lilac blooms and earth fills the air.
We celebrated my last Saturday studio by coasting in the car. We shifted in worn leather seats with our fingertips out the sunroof.
In Bucks County, we awoke early to the song of birds and high-pitched bark of the dogs. The pool’s drooping cover still on, we dipped our hands into the primordial broth, grasping algae and feasting tadpoles, an ecosphere created from rainwater and tarp. We captured it all in a jar once destined for beets and hot pepper jelly, and tossed in a red lily pad for good measure.
With a stick, we skimmed the pond’s surface of floating plants, shoving them down the water pump, forcing bobbing bits into the rushing stream.
We sipped chai and whipped froth, nibbled lemon curd on soft bread, breathed in the trees. The whole day was promised to us; our only restriction, which we placed upon ourselves, was that we were to spend it outside.
We soaped the car with cold water from the hose, using our thumbs to vary the spray—first on the wheels, then in the mouths of two yapping Jack Russells.
I read a Victorian-inspired novel to the far-off hum of a weedwacker, a small dog napping in the cast of my shadow; his greened paws limp from too much play. In front of us, the orchard, the grape vines, the vegetable garden bearing lettuce and asparagus. Peach basil lemonade appeared, clouded ice languorously drifting and clinking the glass.
The manicured shrubs rooted along the rock wall created a labyrinthine hiding spot for the tennis ball we slapped against a racket, provoking another shrill chorus from the Jack Russells.
Not long after we had dinner in the kitchen, wooden chairs skidding over the white tiled floor, we had to leave. There was a party to attend, a premiere overflowing with premium vodka at the PM Lounge. He scrambled for his fishing line; I applied makeup by the fading light through the trees. We carefully wrapped the tadpole jar in a quilt, vowing to return to the pond the moment they sprang legs.
The crunch of the tires on gravel, the last lingering squeak of the dogs, and we were gone. Sad for Sunday, suddenly unappreciative of our cosmopolitan life, once in a while we realize we’re just a little bit country at heart.
Luckily, we have every upcoming weekend of the summer to placate our wants, my parents in Connecticut, his in Pennsylvania, and always welcome to our mooching as long as we pitch in with the property’s upkeep, the cooking, and bring tales of the city every time.
We celebrated my last Saturday studio by coasting in the car. We shifted in worn leather seats with our fingertips out the sunroof.
In Bucks County, we awoke early to the song of birds and high-pitched bark of the dogs. The pool’s drooping cover still on, we dipped our hands into the primordial broth, grasping algae and feasting tadpoles, an ecosphere created from rainwater and tarp. We captured it all in a jar once destined for beets and hot pepper jelly, and tossed in a red lily pad for good measure.
With a stick, we skimmed the pond’s surface of floating plants, shoving them down the water pump, forcing bobbing bits into the rushing stream.
We sipped chai and whipped froth, nibbled lemon curd on soft bread, breathed in the trees. The whole day was promised to us; our only restriction, which we placed upon ourselves, was that we were to spend it outside.
We soaped the car with cold water from the hose, using our thumbs to vary the spray—first on the wheels, then in the mouths of two yapping Jack Russells.
I read a Victorian-inspired novel to the far-off hum of a weedwacker, a small dog napping in the cast of my shadow; his greened paws limp from too much play. In front of us, the orchard, the grape vines, the vegetable garden bearing lettuce and asparagus. Peach basil lemonade appeared, clouded ice languorously drifting and clinking the glass.
The manicured shrubs rooted along the rock wall created a labyrinthine hiding spot for the tennis ball we slapped against a racket, provoking another shrill chorus from the Jack Russells.
Not long after we had dinner in the kitchen, wooden chairs skidding over the white tiled floor, we had to leave. There was a party to attend, a premiere overflowing with premium vodka at the PM Lounge. He scrambled for his fishing line; I applied makeup by the fading light through the trees. We carefully wrapped the tadpole jar in a quilt, vowing to return to the pond the moment they sprang legs.
The crunch of the tires on gravel, the last lingering squeak of the dogs, and we were gone. Sad for Sunday, suddenly unappreciative of our cosmopolitan life, once in a while we realize we’re just a little bit country at heart.
Luckily, we have every upcoming weekend of the summer to placate our wants, my parents in Connecticut, his in Pennsylvania, and always welcome to our mooching as long as we pitch in with the property’s upkeep, the cooking, and bring tales of the city every time.
4 comments:
that sounds nice.
Sounds lovely. Can I come next time?
Mmmmm. This post makes me long for summer afternoons in the backyard of a house in Sag Harbor that has a view of a cove. A hammock, a Corona light, and fresh guacamole from the Milk Pail.
What novel were you reading? :)
Post pictures next time. Even though your words make the best picture.
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