It’s Hammock Time!

The hammock is a summertime symbol of escape. A retreat, for us, between the oak and ash trees.

With my love last summer, we would fall out of the precarious, disintegrating hammock and move to a more grounded situation, to alter the sonic mood on Spotify, or grab another rum punch.

We’d put on Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life and get back in the hammock swing of things again as romantic fools, rum punches in hand, only to be thrust to the earth again through the unrelenting force of this earth’s gravitational pull.

Wintry winds took its toll on the tight strings that held it in its place. & it collapsed, with us in it, suffering under the weight of increased sedentary girth, stationary living. In the West.

When that hammock collapsed, it seemed ominous as first. But the house at wintertime seems to collapse around us in mysterious ways, as if there are ghosts that linger around whenever there is frost on the trees.

The pond is poisoned. Maybe. The koi have all died this winter. I am not as sad about it as I was last spring when we fished their lifeless fish flesh out of the water.

The toaster’s broken, and the rice cooker, and some light fixtures.

But Spring is here to remind us why we are here. We are here to continuously herald in new birth. As far as I know, this is the fundamental hope and promise of life.

We know the songs. We’ve read the poems.

The daffodils and daisies in bloom render those inoperable appliances insignificant. First World Problems.

We need a new hammock.

Between the trees, where the mighty oak and ash are steadfast in the front yard. Right there. Again. In a space seemingly suspended from gravity, and from time and space

Freedom from earth.

Get thee to a hammock. Suspended in a spell, not bound for earth.

We can get another toaster. We can get another hammock. We will get another hammock, and it will be better than the one before.

We have that luxury.

We’re not living in a war-torn land of shrapnel and bombed-out buildings. This isn’t Detroit. This is Boise. This is the City of Trees!

This is our summer! This will be the eternal summer of our happiness.

This will be the summer of yard work and gardening. I am looking forward to mowing the lawn every Friday.

We need to paint the interior of the house, but we’ll get someone to do it for us in a day, one day this summer. The newly painted walls will complement the printed and framed photos of last summer’s adventures in the mountains, white water rafting, and concerts in the botanical gardens or the Shakespeare festival.

We need to get that hammock up as soon as possible. Only then will I know that summer has begun.

Then I will know that those cold, wintry nights, driving to no particular destination after an unrelenting argument with my beloved about politics or the kids, was worth it.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but summer hasn’t even started and I feel like I never want it to end.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.