Earlier today, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I’m writing the worst book in the world. However, my writer friend Trish called and confessed that I couldn’t possibly be writing the worst book in the world. SHE IS!
I told Mark about her one downsmanship and he said NO WAY! He’s writing the worst book in the world.
Bunch of damn Toppers. Can’t let me be superlative for just one day.
* * *
It’s been the nicest summer. Got me thinking about lightning bugs. (Fireflies to Yankees.)
And watermelon. Specifically Jack Carter watermelons. First ones got ripe around the 4th of July. Seems like he’d grow a Jubilee (dark green) and a Sweet Queen or maybe a Princess. It was light green and some kind of good.
Of course his special hybrid peach tree ruined me for peaches. Nothing has ever tasted as good as a ripe peach, dripping with juice in my Aunt Bev’s kitchen. NOTHING.
It almost makes me wish I’d never had one. (Kind of like eating pineapple in Honduras. It spoils you. Grocery store produce pales in comparison and you wind up with a preference for Sour Patch Gummy Worms.)
Thinking about summer means thinking about my memories of Carter Hill. It means thinking about screen doors and homemade ice cream and precious people.
Shel Silverstein said it best in this poem:
how many, how much
How many slams in an old screen door?
Depends how loud you shut it.
How many slices in a bread?
Depends how thin you cut it.
How much good inside a day?
Depends how good you live ’em.
How much love inside a friend?
Depends how much you give ’em