The boys are home, their skin is brown, their smiles are sweet and the last thing they ask me when I put them to bed is if I’ll lightly rub their smooth, perfect backs.
Much to everyone’s surprise there are some decent local cherries after all the rain this spring, and we are deep into the most scrumptious of the local summer produce: tomatoes and melon and peaches galore. There is perhaps no smell I love more than fresh tomatoes on the vine. (Except maybe honeysuckle and the air in a summer storm.)
Last year I discovered Persephone Books. Inside the cover of each, a delighted reader finds this:
Persephone Books reprints forgotten twentieth century novels, short stories, cookery books and memoirs by (mostly) women writers. They appeal to the discerning reader who prefers books that are neither too literary nor too commercial, and are guaranteed to be readable, thought-provoking and impossible to forget.
Many make the ideal summer read, especially if you like stories about intelligent, quirky girls and women whose coming-of-age tales are so endearing (and funny) you’ll regret having to say goodbye to them when the story ends. I especially recommend anything by Dorothy Whipple or Monica Dickens.
There are magical, magical times in my life when I manage to find the right balance between running and working and mothering and enjoying my friends, and this week is one of those. Ah. Heaven. Must relish it now.