Let me say it right out.  I hate Summer.  I hate Summer, and this is about the time, every single year, when I’ve had enough.  Enough constant sunshine.  Enough go-go-go.  Enough heat and fans and air-conditioning.  Enough cantaloupe.

I never even liked Summer when I was a kid.  Come August I’d be itching for the classroom:  the hope in a new teacher’s first words, my very own desk, Language Arts and Social Studies, clean white lines in a red or green Mead spiral, the sniff of pencil erasers, lunch on a schedule and on a plastic tray.  Cold milk.

.

These days, a comfort book or two get me through to Fall.  I plucked this one off the shelf this morning.  Isn’t the cover gorgeous?  Chapter One begins:  When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.  

Ah, yes.

Are you tired of Summer yet? 

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