Speedy July by Nannette Croce

July, and suddenly it seems like the summer is speeding away. For the past four years my summer has begun at the end of my daughter's spring semester at college, around mid-May. For a while it seems like June will never come, and when it does, I'm often thinking, wow, it's still June. Summer hasn't even officially begun. Then July happens and everything speeds by.

By July 4th the daylight is already waning a little earlier––good for the fireworks crowd, but it makes me a little sad. I begin to stay out longer watching the fireflies that often disappear from my area in late summer. Soon the cicadas will be announcing the dog days of August, soupy days when it often feels better to remain indoors. When weeds seem to pop up at twice the normal rate and the weather makes it more of a chore to pull them.

But, I remind myself, it's really only the beginning of July. Were summer a child it would just be attempting its first baby steps. Today we entertained family and did what we can't do during the winter, cooked on the grill, sat outside with paper plates, an enjoyable time with quick, throw-away clean up.

Why look ahead when I am at the height of the season? Why not enjoy what I have right now?

In the Heat of the Night by Nannette Croce

There's nothing like a summer night.

This time of year the sun is rising earlier each day and setting later. Some find it surprising that what we call the first day of Summer really marks the point when the days, which have been growing longer since the spring equinox, start to grow shorter. Knowing that, at this time of year, I make an extra effort to sit outside after dinner and stay out until dark.

Even in the midst of a heat wave as we were last week on the east coast, apparently stretching from North Carolina through where I live outside Philly and up to New York, the evenings, outdoors at least, usually cool to a bearable temperature. I take a book or magazine outside and read for as long as I can make out the words, but I also cast an ear to the sounds around me.

I imagine the birds, every bit as noisy as early morning, calling their babes home to bed. I know better, of course. Once the babes leave the nest, they return no more. Maybe they're just saying good night, like The Waltons used to do. "Good night, Sparrow. Good night, Chicadee. Good night, John Boy"––oops.

This last week of summer I'm caught up with a writer's workshop. Though we have outdoor activities scheduled for most evenings, with the socializing and networking, I keep forgetting to check out the sunset or listen for the birds turning in for the night.

On the 19th, the last day of spring, I will make a point of walking slowly back to my room and savor it, weather permitting. I hope you will too.