Summer is here. And
with it comes powerful ennui of mid-afternoon in the heat, when lackadaisical
reading and napping and half-hearted plans for cleaning the bathroom fade into
“I don’t care.” Then, somewhat
miraculously and regularly, 4:30 PM arrives and so does my real self. Time to get dinner going, cut the garden
lettuce, make that phone call.
Summer is here.
Two weeks ago my husband and I defied the doldrums and drove
four hours to the Marble valley: the
town, the marble quarry, the Coors falls (the picture used to be on the Coors
can, our hostess thinks, and I choose to believe it as gospel truth), the most
impressive stand of aspen I’ve ever seen, and best, mountain serenity broken
only by a late afternoon thunderstorm, my favorite thing, by the way.
We hiked up to the base of the falls (well, one of us did
while the other of us stopped in the middle of the giant scree); we toured that
giant, up-to-the-minute town of Marble, including the stained glass windowed church that had been hauled from Aspen; we touched the new Tomb of the Unknown
Soldier, languishing for years now in the dust waiting for Congress to attach
funds for transport to a bill funding something preposterous like placing
commemorative plaques on Mars; we walked around our hostess’s cabin in the wet
cool evening rearranging (her words) the rocks we could carry (somehow they
ended up in the back of the van, and do I admit this?); we identified Dame’s
Rocket, and to top the evening off, one of us fell into Milford Creek. Not completely, but enough to change sopping
wet clothes immediately.
Too bad you don't know the way to Bobbie's cabin!
