July 11 - Backyard Barbecue

Gathered around a patio table with good friends. Salmon burgers, pickles and beans from the garden. Ice clinking gently in glasses. A cardinal whistling in the tree. Lilies, dahlias and bachelor buttons blooming.

July 10 - Margaritaville

My son once teased me for ordering a margarita the day after Thanksgiving, and rightly so. It's definitely a summer drink.

A margarita is sweet, salty, sour and cold, a wonderful thing to share with friends on a summer night.

I like them on the rocks with salt, the traditional recipe: tequila, Cointreau or triple sec and lime juice. I have no use for strawberry, banana and other variants. They may taste good, but they're not margaritas any more than a blueberry martini is a martini.

Apparently the Cointreau vs. triple sec thing inspires fiery debate, but I doubt I'd know the difference.

I've ordered non-alcoholic margaritas in restaurants a few times, but they turn out to be fruit smoothies in fancy glasses, much too sweet. I'm making it my summer mission to come up with a recipe, and I'll post it here if I hit on something.

July 9 - Sunset Grill

We live two blocks from the popular Boston restaurant that boasts 100 beers on tap. It's especially fun on blistering nights when it's too hot to cook. The exotic, international brews and pub food taste just right, the not-too-cold air conditioning feels wonderful, and we watch sports on the big screen.

July 8 - Biking to Work

Okay, I know, lots of people ride bikes year round as their primary transportation. But for me, biking is strictly a warm-weather thing. In summer, my 20-minute walk to work becomes an efficient, eight-minute bike ride, actually quicker than driving.

But the real payoff is the ride home. A leisurely pedal with a breeze in my face helps the transition from professional to personal life.

July 7 - Vicarious Vacation

Everybody's going away.

Automated e-mail replies announce that somebody will get back to you in two weeks. The guy down the hall at the office is driving through the Canadian maritimes, and somebody else is going to India. The apartment building is practically deserted.

I love vacation, even when it's somebody else's.

July 6 - Remnants of Vacation

It's back to work after a week of playing outside. My sunburned, scraped and bug-bitten skin chafes under business clothes. But I take odd pleasure in the discomfort, which reminds me of hiking, paddling and lounging at the campground.

July 5 - Sandals

My turquoise, wedge slides in soft, bunched leather look like something Bridget Bardot might wear. Cute!

But they are not as comfortable as the unisex "rafters" I got for water sports and wear almost every day in the summer. With thick rubber soles and velcro closures, I can throw them on and go.

July 4 - Distant Fireworks

We're not fans of the loud booming of Fourth-of-July fireworks or the traffic jams afterward.

But I've always loved fireworks from afar, the distant rumble and popping and the colorful plumes on the horizon as the day's festivities wind down. We had fabulous views of Boston's famous esplanade fireworks show from our Southie apartment roof in the 1980s.

In Atlanta 25 years ago, a distant fireworks show shook us from a sound sleep at 4 a.m. on July 5. The Braves and New York Mets had finally finished a 19-inning marathon game peppered with rain delays, and 10,000 fans had stuck it out in the stands to the bitter end. The team management rightly rewarded them with the Independence Day fireworks display they came for. From our apartment three miles away, it sounded like something in the nearby rail yard had exploded. One can only imagine what it was like for near neighbors. It must have sounded like a military invasion.

July 3 - Lobster Rolls

Lobster rolls are huge chunks of lobster meat mixed with a little mayonnaise served on a white sub roll. They are simple and incredibly delicious. You buy them at seasonal stands near the New England coast, perhaps with a few picnic or cafe tables.

Jesse and I had them for lunch at a stand on the grounds of LL Bean's flagship store in Freeport, Maine. Hoping for quick service so we could hit the road, we had a bit of a wait after we placed our order, but the delay was worth it. It was perhaps the most wonderful thing I ever put in my mouth.

July 2 - Early Morning Paddle

In the early morning when the grass is still dewy, the lake is glassy-smooth and quiet. I slip my kayak into the water and paddle gently, unwilling to disturb the magical calm. A Great Blue Heron stands stone-still on a rock in the lake, then suddenly thrusts its head into the water and comes up with a writhing fish. The live breakfast flashes silver in the morning light as it struggles to escape before the bird finally works it down its throat. Delicious.

July 1 - Camp Breakfast

Everything tastes better eaten outside. We favor a huge breakfast when camping and then don't think about food again until evening.

We had spam, country-scrambled eggs (broken directly into the pan, then "scrambled" with the spatula while cooking), sauteed canned mackerel and English muffins cooked on the Coleman stove, plus fresh Bing cherries, washed down with coffee and tea.

Spencer cooked and I "helped," handing him things and washing up afterwards.

June 30 - Lighthouse

The lighthouse at Pemaquid Point in Maine sits high on a mass of metamorphic and igneous rock that is sculpted by relentless waves crashing in. The stone forms ripples, ridges and stair steps, a perfect summer playground for the intrepid. The really brave stand as close to the thundering sea as possible and feel its power as the spray bathes their faces. Others sit motionless on ledges, drinking in the sea air and meditating on the ultimate authority of nature.

Pemaquid Light is depicted on Maine's contribution to the U.S. state quarter series.

Spencer Morrow took this photo.

June 29 - Sounds of the Campground

We had a huge campsite on the lake under the pines. As we sat enjoying the water, we heard a father and his kids playing at the beach. The children performed spectacular feats jumping off the raft, each big splash preceded by "Hey Daddy, watch this!"

Day turned to evening with the clanging of pots and cutlery. Like us, everybody was making dinner. Then came dusk. Campfires popped and people laughed with neighbors under Japanese lanterns, listening to summertime oldies on the radio and playing cards.

Finally, in the dark of night, we heard only crickets, loons, and a faint whine from a distant highway.

June 28 - Camping Equipment

The tent, camp stove, lanterns and cookware stacked in the corner of the shed look so sad in the winter. But come June, Spencer gets everything out and checks it over to make sure it's in good working order. Some of these things are old friends: the Coleman stove we first used in the Okeefenokee Swamp more than 30 years ago. Some are brand-new: the shiny stove-top toaster we bought to replace the old one so rusty that we couldn't lift the wires.

June 27 - Wiffle Lacrosse

In the summer aisle of the grocery store, we couldn't resist plastic lacrosse rackets with wiffle balls. They're not actual wiffle balls, but rather "fun balls," plastic balls in bright colors with uniform holes all over them. (Wiffle balls have slits designed to throw curve balls; not good for lacrosse) We bought four in different colors. I like the purple and yellow one. Before challenging Spencer to a game, I practiced tossing the ball in the air and catching it in the rope-netted pocket of the racket. I can catch it about 20 percent of the time. Spencer has about the same success rate without practicing. Fun!

June 26 - Kids' Toys in the Grocery Store

On a special aisle in the grocery story, the shelves are stuffed with brightly colored plastic toys. These are the precious things uncles, parents and grandparents buy, not because it's a birthday or holiday, but because it's summer.

Red rockets filled with water blast high toward the sun. Green and yellow molds turn wet sand into dinosaurs and starfish. Gigantic wands produce soap bubbles the size of bowling balls. There are classics like jump ropes, sidewalk chalk, paddle ball and jacks to while away the lazy hours of childhood summer.

June 25 - New-Mown Grass

First, you hear the distant hum and then the soft rumble and occasional crunch as someone in the neighborhood pushes a mower across a lawn. The fresh smell of new-mown grass fills the air, a sweet, clean aroma of sunshine and fertile ground, the summer smell you loved from the time you could connect senses with things.

June 24 - Cloudscapes

On an unsettled summer day, sculptural cumulonimbus clouds tower over the mountains on the horizon. Patches of blue sky peek between tall, deep clouds full of shadow and light.

June 23 - Ice Cream Sundae

On a blistering day, Spencer came home with chocolate chip ice cream and caramel topping in a squeeze bottle. We scooped the ice cream into bowls and squeezed on the topping. The first bite was so blissful, it nearly took my breath away. I ate my sundae very slowly, letting each bite melt on my tongue.

June 22 - White Clover

White clover is in bloom on every patch of green, city and country. Misguided suburbanites try to eradicate it from their lawns, but they are fools. The triple-leaves and sweet, creamy-white flowers provide precious summer entertainment for children.

First, there's the hunt for the elusive four-leaf clover. My sisters and I had faith that such a thing could be found, and we spent hours sitting in the grass combing through the clover patches. Our brother Tom told of a place in the woods where an entire clearing was full of four-leaf clovers. I believed, even though he couldn't tell me exactly where it was. I knew the woods pretty well, but Tom was three years older and much smarter. And a much better story-teller.

The second joy of clover is plucking the stems as close to the ground as possible and tying them together to make bracelets, necklaces and garlands. We wore clover necklaces all summer. When they got dry and brittle, we just made another. I was an extremely ambitious child and set out to make a clover chain that went all the way around our house. I don't recall actually achieving this goal, but I do remember stretching my incredibly long chain fully along the attached garage to the back of the house up to the picture window of the living room.

June 21 - The Smell of Rain

On a hot day, the smell of wet pavement announces a rain shower just before the first few drops dot the sidewalk with dark splotches. It smells like rainbows. The smell fades quickly when the rain begins in earnest and streets are soaked.

I've read that the smell is not wet pavement at all, but rather ozone or some other phenomenon in the sky, but I don't believe it. I never smell it in the woods, at the beach or in the middle of a lake.

June 20 - Dueling Hermit Thrushes

A hermit thrush hidden deep in the trees sings its flute-like song, sweet yet haunting, the notes floating across the clearing in early evening. A few seconds later, another unseen thrush responds with the same "ee-oh-lay" tune at a lower pitch. After a pause, the first come back with the song lower still, and the second bird jumps in with higher notes before its neighbor's song has decayed.

Soon the songs are tumbling over each other across the clearing, and all the world is enveloped in the overtones.

Ah ... ee-oh-lay ... trill

Oh ... ee-oh-lay ... tinkle

For half an hour, the singing contest continues until the sun slants low through the trees, and profound silence settles over the woods.

See "May 30 - Veery" in this blog for more about the wood thrush family of birds.

June 19 - Backyard Wading Pool

The temperature hovered around 90 degrees, the first really hot day of the summer. Bright blue, plastic wading pools decorated with orange and yellow octopuses and starfish were stacked on the sidewalk in front of Reny's discount store in Dexter, Maine. A boy about 9 years old loaded one into the bed of a red pickup truck and rode off with his parents, headed for a summer of fun in the backyard.

When my sister Judy was about 6 years old, she received a wading pool for her July 1 birthday. Our mom set it up in the grass outside the kitchen door, and the excitement mounted as it filled with water from the hose. What joy to jump in, splash each other and put our faces into the water to make motorboat noises. All summer, we put on our swimsuits and played in "Judy's pool," and our mom bought a repair kit to patch the inevitable rips from our roughhousing.

June 18 - Lightning Bugs

After dark, points of golden light dance over an open field. They are lightning bugs looking for love on a summer night. Also known as fireflies, each species flashes a unique signal to attract a mate. In most species, the male makes the first move, sending his brilliant message while flying through the air, and the female responds from the ground or a low branch.

On summer nights, children capture lightning bugs in jars for a personal, magical light show, then release them and watch the tiny beacons scatter into the night.

A story told by the Native American Ojibwe people explains how fireflies came into being:

Young thunderbirds were playing a lively game of lacrosse in the sky. They lost control of the ball, and it crashed down to earth, creating Hudson Bay and thousands of lakes in the north country. The concussion was so great that it shook stars from the sky. The fallen stars took wing and became lightning bugs.

In Japan, the song "Light of the Firefly," sung to the same tune as "Auld Lang Syne," marks times of farewell, from graduations to stores closing for the day.

June 17 - Smell of a Charcoal Fire

Something yummy this way comes.

The smell of a charcoal fire drifts to my nose. I breath deep and feel hungry. In a couple of hours, we'll have teryaki chicken.

June 16 - Car-Top Boat Racks

A car with a kayak strapped to the top promises the joys of summer. Even if the car is in the city in a grocery store parking lot, surely the owners are heading to a beautiful spot somewhere in the wilderness.

They must be adventurous types, the kind of people who cook potatoes over an open fire and can identify wild animal tracks in the mud.

We construct their destination in our imaginations to match our own dreams. A Type A craving excitement sees the kayak threading between rocks in cold, white rapids. A stressed-out office worker places the kayak on a glassy lake surrounded by tall, dark spruces.

June 15 - Daisies and Buttercups

The roadsides are dotted with splashes of white and yellow. Daisies and buttercups silently declare that summer is here.

June 14 - High School Graduation

They've done it all: prom, yearbook party, Senior Skip Day. Now it's time to don cheap taffeta caps and gowns, line up in the gym, march onto the football field to a trudging rendition of Pomp and Circumstance by the high school band and hear the same tired cliches about endings and beginnings and the best days of their lives and following dreams.

But to graduating seniors, there is nothing trite or tired about it. For these 18-year-olds, nothing like this has ever happened before. There is a reason why these rituals endure. It truly is everything the speeches say: the turning point between childhood and adulthood.

It's all so beautiful and so frightening.

Whether off to work, military service, college or the unemployment office, each graduate will have to make harder decisions, assume more responsibility than ever before. If they sleep through the alarm this fall, mom won't be there to rap on the bedroom door and insist they get up. It's time to fly solo.

For one last summer, they are still kids leaning on Mom and Dad, but with adult life closing in, they already know the party's over.

June 13 - Suntan Lotion

We sat at a picnic table under the trees near the shore of Sebec Lake in Maine. The smell of suntan lotion wafted up from a couple of people at the water's edge, and with the scent came a rush of summer nostalgia.

The scene was a sandy lake beach in the Midwest in the 1960's, I wore my first two-piece bathing suit, and tinny surfer music played over a transistor radio.

Coppertone and Sea and Ski were the only games in town, and the highest SPF was 8.

A lot of things have changed, but the wonderful summer smell of suntan lotion is still the same.

June 12 - Green Fields

Maine farmers are probably the last in the country to plant their crops. When I was here two weeks ago, brown fields with undulating, plowed furrows dominated the landscape. Now, the fields are covered with tiny seedlings, greening up from horizon to horizon.

June 11 - Firecrackers

The windows are open on a warm night, inviting the sounds of the street into the room.

A whistle, a pop...pop... poppoppoppopopopopopoppop!

Laughter.

June 10 - Summer Dress Code

No such thing as casual Fridays where I work at Harvard Business School. Men wear ties, women wear heels. In summer, the dress code relaxes. You'd never see jeans, but women wear cropped dress pants with sandals, and men leave their crisp dress shirts open at the throat. One guy went wild in a multicolored striped shirt, cheery and comfy.

June 9 - Baltimore Oriole

On my riverside bike ride, a Baltimore Oriole flew across my path less than three feet from my face and landed in a leafy tree. I stopped to listen to its clear, whistling song and to watch it flit among the leaves.

June 8 - Riding Along the Charles

A paved path follows the banks of the Charles River on both sides. On pretty summer days, I get on my bike and pedal along the water for an hour or two enjoying the water, trees and people. This is not the kind of biking for elevating your heart rate. It's a stroll on wheels weaving among walkers, skaters and other bikers.

June 7 - Ice Cream Truck

A music-box version of a Scott Joplin tune tinkles through the air, and kids home in on the sound as if by instinct.

An ice cream truck!

The white truck with colorful decals lumbers through the parking lot at the park. Children rush ahead of adults digging into their purses and pockets for a few dollars.

The pictures of the chocolate-crusted ice cream cones and rainbow-colored, rocket-shaped ice pops promise frozen heaven on a stick.

June 6 - Lupines

Lupines, the purple, pink and white spiked flowers, are iconic images of Maine, ranking almost with moose, loons and lobster. They bloom in depressions, on roadside banks and in gardens. They arrive in early June and fade quickly.

Native Mainers and visitors love the expanses of colorful spires that herald summer. But some naturalists do not share that love, condemning the lupine as an invasive species that chokes out native plants. A couple of years ago, rangers began eradicating them from Acadia National Park, but they heard so many complaints from the public that they halted the program.

Lupines may not "belong" in Acadia National Park, as one official said, but they are deeply rooted in the hearts of the people.

June 5 - Thunderstorm

It begins with untimely darkness and a distant rumble, and suddenly the sky explodes with spectacular veins of light, illuminating the thick clouds. The wind rushes down the street from the west scattering leaves and grocery bags. The rain begins in fat drops, then in violent streams, turning the street to a river churned up by the rain and sloshing tires. The apartment building across the street is a blur, and people splash along the sidewalk under useless umbrellas and cover their ears with each thunder clap.

Just as abruptly, the torrents diminish to a shower, a sprinkle, then nothing. The trees are upright again, and a sliver of blue appears on the western horizon.

June 4 - Riding a Bike on Dirt Roads

On hot days in Harmony, Maine, I ride my bike on dirt roads through the woods. It's one of those mountain hybrids with a comfy seat, shock absorbers and wide, knobby tires to help me plow through sand, gravel, cinders and mud puddles. A liesurely pace is lovely, but sometimes I love to tear along as fast as I can, bumping over roots and boulders, getting covered with sweat and mud splatters.

During a ride last Monday, I encountered an elderly man on an old-fashioned bike with coaster brakes. We were both startled: it was the first time I'd ever seen another bicyclist on the dirt roads, other than a neighbor who rides a tandem by himself into town.

The old gentleman was of the pre-helmet generation. He wore a green brimmed hat with a bug screen for his face and pedaled slowly and steadily. He greeted me with a nod and a smile and rang a bell bolted to the handlebars as we passed each other.

June 3 - Loons

Once you've heard a loon's wail resonating across a quiet lake, it is forever fixed in your mind, a sonic souvenir of summer in the north woods. The long, rising moan sounds mournful, but of course, it's just the way the birds communicate. They also have a yodeling laugh that sounds, well, loony. The first time I heard it, I thought it was a child making funny noises.

Common loons breed in forest lakes in the northern U.S. from Washington to Maine and in Canada. The aquatic, duck-sized birds are black with white spots, with a black head, a distinctive black-and-white "collar" and red eyes.

June 2 - Wild Strawberries

Tiny five-petalled white blossoms with yellow centers, looking like a child’s drawing, dot the clearing in front of a cabin in Harmony, Maine. In a few weeks, they will develop into red strawberries so small that it takes dozens to make a snack.

Wild strawberries heralded summer in Illinois when I was a child, ripening along paths in the woods in early June. Warmed by the sun, they tasted sweet and delicious.

The low plants with three toothed leaves send out runners for new plants and drink in the sunshine they love. The cabin clearing is a perfect spot for them with its well-drained soil. Even after the flowers and berries are gone, the foliage still forms a pretty green carpet.

In Native American mythology, the wild strawberry was born of the first spat between the first lovers. After an argument, the woman ran from the man in anger. Eager to make up, he followed her, but she was too fast for him. The Great One spread blueberries and raspberries in her path, hoping that she would stop to eat them and let the man catch up, but she was too angry to notice.

Finally, the Great One tempted her with strawberries. She stopped to pick the beautiful red berries, giving the man time to reach her and apologize. They returned home together happy again, and the woman planted strawberries in her garden to remind herself to be kind to the one she loved.

June 1 - Frozen Coffee Drinks

Frappuccino: an adult milkshake available at Starbuck's that satisfies addiction to caffeine and craving for ice cream. It's not actually ice cream, but a "blended beverage" made of ice, milk, coffee, sugar and other yummy ingredients. The delicious, frosty concoction gives me a bit of a shiver, even on a hot day. I favor caramel, and it also comes in java chip, mocha and plain-old coffee.

Dunkin Donuts serves something called a Coffee Coolatta that oozes out of a machine. It will do in a pinch, but it's grainy and has an artificial taste.

The Frappuccino is too calorie-laden and pricey to have every day, but I treat myself once a week or so during the summer. They also have a "light" version with skim milk and artificial sweetener, but faced with such choices, I always go for the real thing and have it less often.

May 31 - Dinner at the Picnic Table

Spencer made our picnic table. My paint job didn't take very well, which really bothered me at first, but I've grown to like it. It has the patina of a beat-up picnic table at a state park, its green paint gouged and flaking. I just need to carve some initials into the wood to complete the effect.

The table is in a screen house. On warm evenings I load a tray with a lantern, salt and pepper, napkins and cutlery and take it to the screen house while dinner is cooking. An egg salad sandwich is heaven when accompanied by a soft breeze and dinner music of rustling leaves, crickets and dogs barking in the distance.

May 30 - Veery

A veery sings deep in the woods. His mysterious, flutely song spirals downward, "veer, veer, veer." Veeries are wood thrushes, a group of birds a bit smaller than a robin with brown backs and white chests. The veery's chest is clear, but other species have brown spots and streaks. There are three main species in North America: the veery, hermit thrush and wood thrush. Each has a beautiful, flute-like song that turns a woodland into an enchanted forest.

The veery's haunting song features chords - more than one note at once. The bird's voice is produced in the syrinx, a vocal organ lower in the windpipe than our larynx (they have one of those, too, but with no vocal chords). The syrinx has special muscles that stretch to vary pitch. Birds with simple songs, like the pigeon, have only one syringeal muscle, while songbirds have up to nine.

May 29 - First Day of Summer

Summer is here! On this first day, we're getting ready for a cook-out tomorrow with friends. Yesterday, we put up the screen house and cleaned the picnic table. I have some pretty solar lights to string up over the picnic table. They'll automatically light up after dark.