PROVING MOTHER NATURE RIGHT, FOR A CHANGE

I made a passing reference to this in last week's blog post. I hate to be a Summer spoilsport, but it's coming, for real and without compunction. The color confirms it.

Oh, sure, we're about four weeks early, but I noticed some red in a tree the other day when I was in Blue Hill, Maine. Blue Hill is just over two hours north of Portland and is considered Central Maine, so not really up in the boonies that are north of the Canadian border's latitude. I also noticed some yellow leaves on the ground.

Okay, I told myself, it's no big deal. We're in Maine. Right?

Well, today clinches it. I am in Massachusetts, not too terribly far from the New Hampshire border, but still. I am minding my own business when all of a sudden I notice that one tree in a line of many has turned completely yellow. The rest are green, but this one mid-sized leafy tree has already completely transformed itself into Autumn mode. I look at the rest of the trees I happen to pass in my travels and notice that they, too, have smatterings of color, although not to the extent of that one lone tree.

I love Fall in New England. I'm certainly not going to lie about that. However, it's still hot and humid around here. What's the schtick? 

I suppose we can blame drought, but that usually means that the trees won't change color to any deep extent. If these early turners are any indication, I suspect that Mother Nature has a few tricks up her sleeve. She might defy the weather forecasters and put on a brilliant display this Fall. If I believe the early indicators, then I cannot argue with the changing colors and their glory.

I'd like very much to prove Mother Nature right for a change. Let's get this season on its way.

SUMMER IS ALMOST A MEMORY

Summer is winding down. I hate when this happens.

In an effort to cram absolutely everything into one waning day, a friend and I decide to hit our favorite beach. It's a bit breezy, almost chilly, but we manage to get some sun and enjoy the sand and a little bit of the water. We collect a few beach rocks in our travels (not buckets full like we used to, though), and then take a head up the coast.

Driving up route 1A in Rye, NH, is one view everyone should take in their lifetime. Although the scenery is amazing, the true money shot is coming south again from Rye toward Hampton. There's a curve in the road during the descent that feels like you're flying right off the macadam over the water like a drone. (Sorry - no picture of that because I was driving and didn't want to end up in the briny sea.)

When we return to town, we hit the pool, too, because we are on our dwindling days before schools starts again -- this coming week for my friend and the following week for me. It's cram time . . . that crazy moment when suddenly we realize that our bucket list remains unfulfilled.

The bad part about summer in New England is that it happens way too quickly. The good part about summer in New England is that it occasionally stretches itself into September (sometimes brutally so in schools with no air conditioning) and we are able to stuff a few more afternoons of glory into the calendar before it starts getting pitch-dark and freezing by 4:00 p.m.

Technically, summer doesn't officially end until mid-September, but for teachers every day in August is like Sunday night with that gut-clenching sensation of foreboding weighing us down. The only truly great thing about September is that we start getting paid again (no, teachers do NOT get paid summers). Money from our day jobs make our summers possible, so I'll work my brain to its outer limits just to live to see the end of June next year.

Until then, just know summer is ending, and I hate when it happens, so I'll cram everything I can into the next two weeks. My calendar is full . . . until September 1st . . . then reality bites my arse and the beach will be nothing but a memory. But, a wonderful memory, just the same.

NOTHING LIKE A SPRINT TO P-TOWN

Nothing like a yacht race in the dead of night.

Actually, I don't really know what that's like because I didn't participate in the race. I do, however, visit P-Town to revel with those who sailed under the stars. 

For those who might live outside of New England, P-Town is a nickname for Provincetown, the very tip of the very end of the very long arm of Cape Cod. It's the remotest of the remote parts of the peninsula, yet you'd never know it once you get out of your vehicle or off the boat or down from your bike or step off the ferry, depending upon your mode of arrival. 

My friend and I drive down -- on a Saturday -- when it's sunny and ninety degrees -- in the summer.

That sentence alone scares the crap out of anyone who actually lives in eastern Massachusetts. No one in their sane and right mind would even attempt to cross the Bourne or Sagamore Bridges on a sunny, hot Saturday in the dead-center of the high season, but locals also know that if you cross either bridge early enough, the tourists will be none the wiser. 

Since nobody makes it to the Cape without crossing the canal, technically one might argue that Cape Cod an island. Not true, or, perhaps, we just don't care. The islands are MV and Nantucket. MV, by the way, is Martha's Vineyard. Some "I think I'm so clever" writer tried to call it The Martha to piss off locals, but she missed her mark because: your tourist status shows when you call it Martha anything; your wallet shows if you call it the Vineyard; and no real Masshole would ever be pissed off by anything some outsider had to say because you're the same nitwits who refer to Boston as "Beantown."

So on this steamy and sunny summer Saturday, we hop in the car near Neponset (a south of/still technically part of Boston) and happily head toward the Cape. As we near the Sagamore, nearly every car we see has Massachusetts plates because we know, oh how we know, what this crossing will look like one hour from now and for the rest of the bloody day. We have a forty-five second back-up caused by a minor collision between a truck and a car just as we are ready to hit the metal girders. Other than that, it is smooth sailing all the way to Provincetown. 

Door to door, from Neponset Circle to Commercial Street, we make it in two hours flat. (Locals are high-fiving us from afar and we accept your kudos. We totally promise, a few middle fingers may have been thrown, but no random bicyclists were maimed in the course of this endeavor and no Funk Buses were sideswiped.)

We arrive in time for breakfast, while it's only in the mid-eighties temperature-wise, but by the time we hit the streets mid-morning, it is as hot as the fires burning at the Gates of Hell. We head to the marina to meet up with the rest of the weary night-race crew, and I stand in the one piece of shade on the entire labyrinth dock, sweating my skin off. We are all melting, so we head for more shade and a slight breeze along the wharf.

P-Town is full of small shops and little restaurants and people. Lots and lots of people. Despite the tiny streets and the throngs of bodies, it just doesn't feel crowded at all. My friend bails when the heat overtakes her and meets up with one of the sailors to recover in air conditioning with a dash of Pedialyte while I continue exploring and dripping. Maybe that's why it doesn't seem so humanly congested; we are all trying to avoid each other's sweaty stenches.

One of the best things about Provincetown, though, is its large and accepting LGBTQ community. They have some of the best drag shows around, and I keep encountering one fabulous character on the street, who graciously poses for my camera. When I ask how she keeps her make-up from melting in the heat, I am privy to a glowing and knowing smile and the most bashful eyes I have ever seen. There's a show at 3, I'm told, and another at 7. I cannot make either one, but maybe next time. Drag shows are great fun, but it also feels a little too clammy even here with the multiple water breezes, to be inside a theater.

Later in the day we enjoy a patio reception for the racers, and the crew graciously tolerates me as both an outsider to their group and an interloper to their party. We almost make it to dinner, but then we grab one of the crew members and announce that the three of us are heading back to the mainland. It's after six, so travel will be light. On a summer Saturday evening, people are not escaping Cape Cod unless, well, unless they're locals like we are and know that it's the only opening we'll have for the remainder of the weekend.

I'm a little sorry that this may be both my first and last time to see the aftermath of the night yacht race from Boston to P-Town as the crew seems to be leaning toward not doing this race anymore. Today has been so perfect that I'd like to do it again next summer, and the summer after, and maybe even the summer after that.

Of course, it may have nothing at all to do with P-Town or the Cape. It could just be that it's another damn-fun adventure. All-y'all know that I do love a damn-fun adventure, especially when it involves beating the tourists, enjoying the amazing ocean scenery, and besting anyone who calls an island the Martha. 

In the famous words of Cher (not the singer nor the drag queen): UGH! AS IF!

CATCHING UP WITH THE WEEKEND DOG DAYS

 Well, this post is about seventeen hours late. We have been in the Dog Days of Summer up here in New England. I can't even remember when it was last below 85 degrees -- I think it may have been March, at this point.

I end up taking a weekend trip to Maine to visit my sister and her family and their puppy, a rambunctious English Lab named Helen. Helen is a typical baby -- she loves to jump and play and lick and, yes, nip a little because that's what puppies do. When I arrive Friday evening, Helen clearly has forgotten that I used to chase her around the yard mere months ago. Her reaction is very puppy-like except for one teeny problem:

Helen is one of the strongest, sturdiest, silliest puppy I have ever met.

This means that simply meeting Helen can be a lesson in tough love -- tough because she is so strong that it's easy to be bowled over, and tough because she is such a lovey-dovey that it's hard to get kisses and scratches and belly rubs to her with the solid package of her vibrating like a carnival ride.

I manage to play a lot of catch with her. No matter how many times she tries to trick me with her other toys, every time I ask her to get her stuffed Mr. Puppers, she does. No matter where Mr. Puppers is, Helen will go find him. By the time we're done working on our tricks on Saturday, we have mastered drop it, leave it, wait, ready, get it. Even when Helen changes out her squeaky toy for Mr. Puppers, she does not react physically until I instruct her to "Get it."

Then, Sunday comes, and Helen greets me like it's 50 First Dates. She has zero idea who I am and what I'm doing there. Once we start up with Mr. Puppers, though, I can see she really did pay attention the day before.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, this post is late because in the middle of Summer's Dog Days, I carve out a couple of Dog Days just for myself. The post may be late, but I didn't drop it, readers didn't leave it, you all waited until the post was ready. Now you can get it.