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.
Are you tired of Summer yet?