Author: Michael

This late summer morning finds you cleaning your house. You have vacuumed and mopped your floors, washed your linens, and scrubbed your bathroom. You are working steadily, appreciating your space as it stands up straighter around you. You pause for a moment, watching your living room curtains ripple in the path of the air conditioning vents, and you breathe deeply.

There is a knock on your front door, so soft that you wonder if your mind is playing tricks on you. You set down your cleaning rag and open the inside door. A wall of heat hits you immediately.

Matthew, Grace’s partner, is standing outside on the porch, visibly sweating.

“Hello, You,” he says.

You say, “Hello, Matthew. Would you like to come inside?”

He answers, “I reckon.” You push the screen door open, and he steps through it.

Matthew sizes up your living room, and then returns his gaze to the floor. He says, “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

You say, “Not at all. Can I help you with something?”

Matthew stands there, rocking on his feet, for several seconds. Then he says, “You see, I’m here to ask you something, but I suddenly find myself rather worried you might say no.”

You say, “I understand. Why don’t you try me?”

He clears his throat, and says, “Would you like to go river tubing today? Emily and I are taking a small group to the Summer House.”

You say, “Yes, that sounds like fun. What’s the Summer House?”

Matthew smiles and tells you, “Oh, it’s an old estate that was donated to the town many years ago. It sits on a bluff over the river, a few miles upstream of here. Fritz will drive us, and then we’ll have dinner at the pavilion out that way.”

You say, “I’m in. What should I bring?”

He answers, “Just a towel and some sunscreen. Maybe a change of clothes. Fritz and Anna like to lay out a spread, so the food is all covered. They’ll pick us up at two o’clock.” Matthew turns toward the door. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m glad you will join us.”

You say, “You didn’t bother me at all. Thank you for thinking of me.”

Matthew says over his shoulder, “You bet,” as he lets himself out your door. You smile to yourself, appreciating Matthew’s bravery, as you return to your cleaning. You smell sweet alyssum in the hot air from outside, and you take another cleansing breath.

When the appointed time comes, you walk out of your house with your beach bag slung over your shoulder. Matthew, Emily, Larry, and Mason are standing outside Fritz’s cargo van, which has been completely covered on its roof and sides with giant inner tubes.

“Gruss dich, You!” Fritz calls out when he sees you. “I still need to bring over your pizza oven.”

You say, “Guten tag, Fritz! Thanks for remembering. I’m definitely still interested.”

Anna, sitting inside the van, leans out the driver’s window and says, “I will bring it to you myself, maybe even tomorrow. I cannot even walk through the garage.”

Mayor Ashley’s wife, Lauren, appears from the other side of the van. “Oh, hey, You! I’m so happy you’re coming along. Do you wanna sit in the back row, with the bad kids?”

You laugh and say, “Yes, I’ll take a walk on the wild side.”

The ride to the Summer House takes about 20 minutes. Fritz drops off Anna, along with multiple coolers and crates, at a large screened-in pavilion. They kiss sweetly as they part, and Fritz murmurs something to her in German [“Du bist für immer mein Tierchen”] that causes her to slap him on his backside, winking as she does. Anna climbs up on the running board next to the open sliding door and says, “Have fun, and work up a good appetite!” Everyone nods and smiles in agreement, waving goodbye.

Another 15 minutes later, you have arrived at the dropoff point for tubing. The river is much wider and slower here than it is when it cuts through town. You take a tube from Fritz, and head down to the riverbank, leaving your beach bag in the van. Fritz gives a big wave to the group as he turns his van around and heads back to the Summer House.

As you set your tube in the water and splash down into it, Larry and Mason come up to you and start to do the same. You notice that Mason is wearing his friendship bracelet from PorchLuck. Larry asks, “Have you met my son?”

Before you can answer, Mason holds up his arm and says, “We made this bracelet together!”

Larry says, “Oh, cool. I’m glad you two are acquainted, and in such a great way.”

You say, “Yes, so am I.”

Your group is on the river for just about three hours. When you arrive at the Summer House, you marvel at how tired you can be from basically sitting still all that time. Fritz and Anna have grilled shish kebabs of veggies and halloumi cheese in the pavilion kitchen. You ladle some rice onto a plate, stealing a first bite of the salty, perfectly charred kebab, and you take a slow and relaxed breath.

Matthew comes up to you and says, “I’m so glad you’re here. And not just today. We are really lucky to have you living in town with all of us.”

You say, “Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”

Matthew stares out across the river waters down below. He says, “Coming out here always makes me think of Norman Maclean: ‘The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.’”

You say, “That’s lovely. But I have to ask… was there a parade in that movie?”

Matthew shakes his head and says, “Didn’t need one. The river was enough.”

On the night of the August full Moon, you return home a little early after the baked potato buffet to rest and digest your dinner. You have a late night ahead, because you are staying up to watch the Perseids meteor shower during its annual visit. You sit down with a book in your living room, feeling full and sleepy. You have prepared a cup of green tea to give you a little energy for this late adventure. With the antique clock from your grandmother on your mantel marking time, you feel the soft upholstery of your favorite armchair against the backs of your knees, and with your bare feet planted on the creaky hardwood floor, you take a slow breath.

Jubilee Station is still quiet in these late summer days, with people away on vacation before school starts again. But as you walk up Stevens Lane toward the college campus, others from your neighborhood are also making their way up the gentle slope of town. You are all heading for the observation deck on the Ridgeline Trail, where the town library is hosting a viewing event for the meteor shower.

“Hello, You!” someone calls out through the darkness. “Ready to see some space rocks?”

You say, “Yes! Hello, Joshua. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

He says, “Not since Juneteenth, maybe? I was gone for most of July. I’ve got friends from college in Brooklyn. They have a spare bedroom at their house, and they’ve got a cottage on Fire Island where we go for the weekends.”

You say, “That sounds lovely.”

Joshua adds, “Best thing is, the whole deal is practically free. I cook a few dinners a week, and walk their dog during the day. They tell me it saves them money when I come visit.”

You nod and ask, “When does Festival Committee pick up again for you?”

Joshua laughs and says, “For us, you mean! We have the Harvest Festival in October. That’s the biggest one we do. I guess this will be your first since you moved here, right?”

You say, “Yes, that’s right.”

A familiar voice chimes in, “Best weekend all year. And this whole town is so grateful to Joshua for making it happen.”

You look over to see Mayor Ashley crossing the street toward you.

Joshua waves at the mayor and says, “Oh, stop.”

She says, “Can’t stop, won’t stop. I’m not just the mayor. I’m also a founding member of the Joshua Fan Club.” Even in the darkness, you can see Joshua blushing. 

The three of you cross onto the campus, making your way to the Ridgeline Trail. Mayor Ashley and Joshua continue catching up with each other, but you ease back from their conversation. As you cross Rustin Street, the hills ahead rising to the sky, you let the easy chatter of your neighbors drift past you. You see a row of Crepe Myrtle trees in full bloom, their branches heavy with flowers. You smell a hint of pizza in the air, from the late night shop next to campus, and you feel the cool and humid breeze from the ridge on your skin. You take a contented breath.

There are red lights on the path up to the observation deck, along with a sign reminding visitors to put your phone away, so as not to ruin your night vision. When you reach the top, there are dozens of people on the observation deck. They are sitting in camp chairs or laying on yoga mats, heads craned toward the sky. Someone yells, “Two o’clock!”, and everyone snaps to look toward the northeast. You see a fiery green streak of light, and a ripple of “oohs” and “ahhs” passes over the crowd.

You, Joshua, and Mayor Ashley all get yoga mats from the Observatory Library, a shed where the trail meets the deck. As you find an open space to lay out your mats, an older person in a camp chair whispers to you with excitement, “It looks like we’ll be able to see the Northern Lights tonight, too.”

You say, “Really? I didn’t think that was even possible this far south.”

They say, “It’s very rare. We may or may not see it, because of the Moon. Set yourself up so you’re facing north.” You do as you’ve been told, laying down so that your feet face the river. The Moon is still low in the sky, hiding behind the treeline, glowing a deep yellow through the canopy, and practically shimmering in the night air.

You have started to doze off when the crowd gasps, bringing you back to alertness. You look up and see a series of magenta pulses arcing through the sky. Mayor Ashley grabs your arm and says, “Can you see it? Can you see it?”

You say, “Oh yes, you bet I can.”

The meteors trace occasional vivid lines over the backdrop of the aurora, and the crowd murmurs with delight. You feel the firm wooden deck supporting your body through the yoga mat, and you hear the chorus of the forest at night, joined by the quiet voices all around you. You take in the majestic show playing out overhead, and you draw in a deep breath.

Joshua yawns and says, “I feel like a kid at a slumber party. I don’t want to go to bed.”

Mayor Ashley props herself up on an elbow and faces both of you. She says, “Nobody told you that you had to go to bed.”

You say, “I started to fall asleep a little.”

Joshua grins and says, “Yeah, we noticed.”

The Mayor wrinkles her nose and says, “I think it’s even better that way. This all feels like a dream. You drift off, open your eyes again, and you see this?” She waves broadly toward the sky, and continues, “Maybe You are doing it just right.”

You say, “Thanks, Your Excellency.”

She chuckles softly and replies, “Vote early and often, that’s all I ask.”

The first weekend in August finds you out for a hike along the Ridgeline Trail that encircles Jubilee Station. Up in the hills that cradle the town, you hear a chorus of cicadas and crickets all around you. The still forest air is thick with the scent of pine trees. You pause for a sip of cold water from the bottle in your backpack, and as you relax your eyes to take in the flocks of birds roaming through the tree canopy, you take a deep breath.

A few minutes later, you reach the observation deck that sits atop the Jubilee Ridge. You look down at Lucretia Mott College, and realize you can see your office window. The clouds overhead are painting shadows across the town. Over the river, in the distance, you can see that all of the greenhouses are open to the hot and sunny day.

Your phone chimes with a text message, from Kerri with the Puzzle Exchange. She says,

“Rec softball tonight at 7. There will be orange slices. Wanna play?”

You text back, “Yes! Thanks for asking. I’m not very good, so you should put me in the outfield.”

Kerri replies, “Who said anything about being good? See ya soon.”

You put away your phone and your water, taking up your hike again. A few other hikers pass you now and then, but until you reach the branch that extends down to The Everyone Playground, and toward your home, there are long stretches where you are alone with your thoughts.

When you get back to your house, you take a cool shower to rinse the sunscreen and bug spray off your skin. You realize in the shower that you have plenty of time in your afternoon for a nap before the softball game.

By the time your alarm gently calls to you, the sun is low enough in the sky that you wonder for a moment if you have slept all the way through to morning. Inspired by your own confusion, you wander into your kitchen, head still fuzzy, and begin making yourself an omelet for dinner. You chop up fresh tomatoes and peppers from the greenhouses, adding eggs courtesy of Fritz and Anna’s hens.

You take your breakfast-dinner out on the porch in bare feet, noticing the gentle warmth of your stone transom under your toes as you step out the front door. Grace and her family are on a road trip to Niagara Falls, so the baked potato buffet is taking a vacation this week. You make quick work of your omelet, washing it down with a tall glass of ice water. You brush a little bit of sweat away from your cheek as you rest your hands on your chest and take a slow breath.

As you return to The Everyone Playground for the softball game, you see Kerri, as well as Jacey from Tireless Mechanics, and a few other people you recognize from the Puzzle Exchange.

Kerri says, “Hello, You! Glad you could make it. We almost cancelled because so many people are away, but we figured it would be fun to gather the folks who are still around. Do you need a glove?”

You say, “Yes, thank you. It’s been a long time since I played, and I don’t own a glove.”

Jacey says, “Don’t worry about that. We’ve got supplies and snacks. In fact, I baked something special for the game. It’s a… bunt cake.”

Kerri says, “Jacey, never stop being you.” To you, Kerri says, “We might just take batting practice, depending on how many people show up. In fact, while we wait, let’s get you up there hitting dingers.” She hands you a helmet and a bat and says, “We’re just here to have fun.”

Standing on the pitcher’s mound is Ephraim, a high school kid who volunteers now and then with the Puzzle Exchange. He calls to you, “Are you ready to take some swings?”

You walk up to the plate and say, “Yes. Let’s see if I remember how this works.”

Ephraim pitches underhand to you, and the softball hangs in the air for what seems like forever. When it reaches the plate, you take a short swing and swat it back toward the pitcher’s mound. Ephraim laughs at this and says, “Okay, okay, keeping me on my toes. I see how it is.”

In the end, there are enough players to field two teams with no outfielders. The group agrees that any hit leaving the infield will count as a double. Everyone lingers over the orange slices between innings. You spend some time playing third base, chatting with the runners who end up there. In your last at bat, you manage to whack a hit over the fielders’ heads and onto the outfield grass. Everyone lets out a hearty cheer to endorse your work.

As dusk settles into the valley, both teams gather in the home team dugout, to finish off the orange slices and the bunt cake. Kerri comes up to you and says, “I hope that didn’t stress you out.”

You say, “Not at all. In fact, it was pretty relaxing.”

Kerri nods at this and says, “That’s the idea. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, sometimes it rains.”

You say, “Works for me.”

As you walk home for the night, the katydids are singing in the forest, and you spot glimpses of the half Moon overhead through the trees. The playground at the end of your block is empty. You feel a warm breeze coming down the ridge, and you take a relaxing breath.

The lamp next to the couch on your porch casts a soft glow on your front door. You linger on the transom for a moment, and savor the quiet of your neighborhood settling in for the night.

Early Friday morning in mid-July, a group of Puzzle Exchange volunteers are gathering at the ¡Jugamos! toy store for a field trip. Your destination today is an auto repair shop called Tireless Mechanics, located on the north side of town across the river. You have brought coffees and teas for everyone from Cafe Frances, along with chocolate croissants from the French bakery. Even with the extra stops, you are the first to arrive. As you sit on the front stoop of the toy store, the sun casting a glow over the town, you sneak a bite of croissant. The buttery chocolate melts in your mouth, and you take a slow and savoring breath.

The Jessicas show up a moment later, with their usual clipboards in hand. 

“Good morning, You!” they say in unison. “Is all of that for us?”

You say, “Yes! I thought we might need sustenance for our journey.”

The first Jessica says, “That’s true. It might take us ten whole minutes to walk there.”

The second Jessica says, “Is this a latte I see before me?”

You say, “Sure is. I hope I got it right.”

She picks up the drink, studies the scribbles on the side of the cup, and says, “You got it exactly right. Thank you so much.” Jessica takes a sip, and says, “Oh, that’s perfect.”

As the others arrive, you distribute drinks and croissants to all. They stand in a circle around the entrance of the toy shop, chatting quietly and enjoying the breakfast you have brought for everyone. There are numerous mumbled “thank yous” through bites of food.

The group shuffles into motion, crossing the river on the College Avenue Bridge, and you marvel once again at the Greenhouses perched atop most of the buildings on the north side. Kerri, another volunteer from the Puzzle Exchange, catches your eye and says, “Aren’t they great?”

You say, “Yes. I haven’t been up to visit them yet, but I’d really like to see.”

Kerri says, “Well, you’re in luck. I work for the Land Trust, and I organize tours. Let’s wait until the weather cools down a little bit, and then we can find a time to get you up there.”

You say, “Thank you! I’d really appreciate that.”

She says, “You’re welcome. I’m so excited about what we’ve built here. Every time I see our veggies at the grocery store, I feel proud of this town all over again.”

As promised, the walk to Tireless Mechanics takes about ten minutes. One of the mechanics, a younger woman, is waiting outside the service bays for your group. She is bouncing on her feet as you approach, and gives each of the Jessicas a quick hug.

“Good morning!” she says. “My name is Jacey, and I’ve gotta be honest… I’m a little puzzled about why you’re here today.”

Kerri leans over to you and whispers, “Jacey and I play rec softball together. It’s just dad jokes all the time. Brace yourself.”

Jacey continues, “Today we’re doing a car clinic together. Everyone will get to practice changing a tire, and we will show you how to do things like replacing your wiper blades. I promise you, we’re gonna have a wheel good time together.”

Someone in the back groans softly.

Jacey leads everyone through the waiting area, which has a lending library of car repair tools and manuals. She says, “Here at Tireless Mechanics, we service all of the cars in the Jubilee Station car share program. In fact, we service every make and model car that’s out there. We even work on cars that are made for eggs… you know them as Yolkswagens.”

At the far end of the shop, there are two cars sitting in bays with their hoods open. The cars both have the Jubilee Station Car Share logo on them. Jacey says, “These cars are here for their state inspections. We heard that one of them has been humming a little bit, so we need to check that out. But I think it’s just humming because it can’t remember the lyrics.”

You hang back from the group, taking a moment to enjoy the hum of the shop. You hear torque wrenches and the hiss of their air compressors. You watch as the Puzzle Exchange volunteers gather around one of the cars, grinning broadly at Jacey’s dad-joke energy despite themselves, and you take a deep breath.

Jacey looks over your way and calls out, “Pardon me, You? Are you good at math?”

You say, “Yes, I’m all right at it.”

She asks, “Then maybe you can tell me… what did the zero say to the eight?”

You say, “I’m not sure.”

Jacey answers, “Nice belt! Speaking of, this is the serpentine belt, and here’s how it works….”

Two hours later, everyone’s hands are properly dirty, and the group has cheered each other through changing tires and adjusting brakes. Jacey disappears into the back office, and comes back with a bouquet of flowers in her greasy hands.

She announces, “You all did so great, I wanted to give each of you something from the Greenhouses. It’s a mechanic’s favorite flower… the car-nation.” She hands one to you, and you turn it in your grubby fingers, admiring the brilliant white color. You hold the flower to your nose, its scent strong and sweet, and breathe deeply.

One of the Jessicas says, “Jacey, this was wonderful. You’re the best.”

Jacey says, “Oh, it’s nothing. But I’m glad we’re together right now, because this is a special day for me. It’s actually my 5-gear anniversary at the shop. I didn’t want to talk about it, though, because I was afraid I’d have… a breakdown.”

The other Jessica says, “You just never run out of those, do you?”

Jacey shakes her head and says, “Nope. But if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go have my lunch. I brought it special from home. It’s… car-patch-io.”

The group laughs good-naturedly, and waves farewell to Jacey at the garage door.

When the 4th of July dawns in Jubilee Station, the weather has taken a break from nonstop heat. You sit down with your morning tea on the back steps of your house, watching the squirrels try in vain to reach the bird feeder. Despite the early hour, you can already smell a hint of charcoal and lighter fluid in the air. As the kids across the way chase each other with a garden hose, you lean against the chipped metal railing next to you, and you breathe deeply.

The town parade kicks off on the college campus at noon, giving you a few hours to tidy up around the house. You make a strawberry shortcake that you can bring to Grace’s house for the holiday edition of the baked potato buffet.

When your chores are done, you head down to College Avenue, where you find Grace and her family waiting for the parade to begin.

Grace’s partner, Matthew, calls out, “Hello, You! Quick, you’re just in time. Do you watch movies?”

You say, “Yes, of course.”

Emily’s partner, Chris, says, “Then you can settle this once and for all. What’s the best ever movie parade?” Chris motions to the rest of the group to stay silent.

You scratch your chin and say, “Hmm. I can’t think of that many. Actually, I can only think of two – Ferris Bueller, and The Fugitive.”

Matthew says, “That’s right… now, can we even say which one of those is better?”

You answer, “That would be a tough call. They’re both pretty great. And isn’t it funny that they’re both in Chicago?”

Chris replies, “It’s amazing that they’re both in Chicago.”

Matthew looks up at you and says, “I just don’t think we can crown a single winner. They’re so different. It’s apples and oranges, really.”

Chris slumps back in their seat and protests, “Why can’t fruit be compared?” 

Emily hands baby Claire over to Chris and says, “While you’re pondering that, my love, take your incomparable child for a moment. She wants you.”

Grace beckons you to her side. As she leans away from the film critics, she says to you, “I don’t know about any of that, but… can I tell you about something cool?”

You say, “Yes, please.”

Grace says, “There’s a sensory zone for this parade. Down the hill, in front of the library. You should go check it out. We’ll be here, and we’ve got a chair for you when you get back.”

You say, “Thank you!” And you start down College Avenue, walking behind the crowds that are gathered on the edge of the sidewalk. Before you even reach the official sensory zone, you see signs on the parade route reminding fire trucks and others to take a break from sounding their horns. There is also a broad green line painted across the road.

Crowds are gathering in the sensory zone, just like everywhere else. But conversations are happening as a low murmur, and for the first time since you neared College Avenue, you can hear bird song again. There are big coolers on tables in front of the library, serving up cold water and iced tea. You take in the quiet that the town is creating together here, and you savor an easy breath.

You spot Mayor Ashley sitting on a camp chair with her youngest kid, who is nestled in her lap, and wearing over the ear headphones. The Mayor waves you over with a big smile, and reaches up to hug you with one arm, whispering, “It’s so great to see you!”

You whisper back, “You too! But don’t you have, like, official duties today?”

She scoffs. “We’re not real big on ‘official’ around here. Besides, I have like 72 deputy mayors. Are you sure you aren’t actually one of them?”

The grand marshals of the parade, a quartet of kids from Catto Elementary, ride by in the back of a pickup truck, waving silently to the crowd, and signaling the official start of the parade. Following them is a newspaper-themed float bearing the winners of the Town Gazette scholarship contest, and then, the ladder truck from Jubilee Station’s volunteer fire company, which has doused its lights and switched off its engine so it can coast through the sensory zone.

You sit down on the curb next to Mayor Ashley and her child, who is fidgeting in the Mayor’s lap with evident excitement. Mayor Ashley herself also starts to fidget, and she smacks you lightly on your shoulder, pointing toward the source of her delight.

Jubilee Station’s ballet school is hurrying into place in front of the library. The dancers are wearing wireless earbuds, so they can perform silently while keeping time with their music. The parade stops behind them as the corps of 16 dancers take their positions. The dance unfolds, slowly and elegantly, in front of you.

Mayor Ashley leans over and whispers, “Isn’t this beautiful?”

You whisper back, “Yes, it’s extraordinary.”

She says, “I genuinely love Alvin Ailey and all the modern stuff? But I’m a Balanchine girlie at heart.”

You rest your hands on your knees, enjoying the intricate choreography as the dancers weave through each other’s paths. Their movements are so smooth that it looks like they are dancing through water. You feel the pebbly texture of the concrete curb beneath you, and as you relax your eyes to take in the entire dance, you draw an appreciative breath.

When the ballet concludes, the dancers form a circle, their backs to each other, and they take a bow. The parade goers on both sides of the street hold their hands in the air and wiggle their fingers in appreciation.

Mayor Ashley’s wife, Lauren, arrives with their other two kids. The kids each pat you on the head when they arrive, as if they are playing Duck Duck Goose, tickled to have an adult down on their level. You hold up your hand, and they give you high fives as they sit down next to you on the curb.

You arrive at the River Beach on the afternoon of opening day, during the last weekend of June. The Play Library has set up an outpost at the edge of the beach, and you stop by to pick up an umbrella and a chaise lounge. You packed a cooler with snacks, and you’ve brought the novel that your friend in the City recommended to you. As you pick your way through the crowd, looking for the perfect spot, you marvel at the seagulls who have come this far inland. You smell the scent of coconut from people’s sunscreen, and as the sand tickles the soles of your feet, you take a relaxing breath.

Time slows down on the beach. You go for a swim in the briskly cold river, and then doze off while reading your book. You are half asleep and half awake when you hear someone say, “Can you believe we used to do this without any sunscreen at all?”

You look over to see Elise, sitting on her walker. A volunteer from the Play Library is setting up an umbrella and two chaise lounges next to you. Standing with Elise is another older woman, leaning on a cane.

Elise looks over at you and lights up. “Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you’re here. This is Pat, my sister.”

Pat says, “Hello, youngster. I don’t remember you. First time here?”

You say, “Yes, in fact. I just moved to town this past spring.”

Pat says, “Well, good. It’s hard to tell anymore if I can’t remember people because we don’t know each other, or because I’m old. I guess I have my marbles today.” She and Elise both laugh at this, as they gingerly lower themselves onto the chaise lounges.

Elise says to Pat, “So, how many summers is this?”

Pat laughs and replies, “Can’t be that many. I’m only 29.”

Elise swats her sister’s arm and says, “You’ve been 29 since the first moon landing.”

Pat muses, “And somehow I was married 62 years. I guess time is funny that way.”

You say, “62 years? Wow. That’s amazing.”

Elise smiles at you and stage-whispers, “They actually got married here, you know.”

You ask, “Here at the River Beach?”

Elise nods and tells you, “Jack used to run the snack bar when we were lifeguards here. These two were always sweet on each other, but he was so shy.”

Pat cuts in, “I was not shy.”

Elise continues, “He never asked her out. Finally, on the last day of the summer before senior year in high school, Pat marches up there and lays into him. Shouting so the whole beach could hear. ‘I’m so mad at you, Jack! I’ve had a crush on you for three years now, and I’m tired of waiting on you to do something about it.’”

Pat says, “I had a little fizz in those days.”

Elise’s eyes sparkle as she says, “Had? Anyway, she’s standing there, her hands balled into fists, looking for all the world like she’s gonna fight him. And what does he do?”

Pat says, “He kisses me! Right there in the snack bar!”

Elise concludes, “Two summers later, they got married in the snack bar on opening day.”

You say, “That’s wonderful.”

Pat says, “It really was. I miss him so much. This would be our 70th anniversary today.”

Elise and Pat look down to the water, lost in their memories. You lay back in your own chair, noticing the line between sun and shade falling on your legs, and you take a slow breath.

As the day turns toward evening, you help Elise and Pat to the river’s edge, so they can dip their toes in the water. When you settle them back into their chairs, Pat reaches into the top of her swimsuit and produces a wad of cash. She says to you, “Will you go get us some dinner?”

You say, “Yes, of course.”

Elise says, “The snack bar is long gone now, but these food trucks are pretty good.”

Pat hands you the money and says, “Be a dear and get us two hot dogs, some cheese fries, a funnel cake to share, and two birch beers – the blue ones, if they have ‘em.” You say nothing at this, but Pat reads your facial expression, and says, “My cholesterol is just fine, love. Don’t you worry about us. Be sure to get something for yourself, too.”

The three of you sit together, savoring your bounty from the food trucks, as the crowd gradually disperses and people head home for showers and bedtimes. The lifeguards blow their whistles for one long blast to signal the end of their day. Elise says, “That used to be us. We also guarded at the Natatorium on campus. Have you heard about it?”

You say, “Oh yes. I’m hoping to get there soon.”

Pat chimes in, “I’ve never seen anything else like it. A huge natural pool in a cavern. We taught swim lessons there.”

Elise wipes her mouth with a napkin and adds, “They use it as a robotics lab now, but you can still go swimming. It’s open to the whole town on Saturday nights all winter.”

By the time sunset comes around, a small group is setting up a DJ booth at the Summer Stage, back by the food trucks. The families with kids have cleared off the beach, and there are high schoolers hanging out on the picnic tables, laughing and flirting with each other. You look up at the first stars appearing in the night sky, and as you feel the chill of the river settling onto the beach, you take an easy breath.

As you start gathering your things, you realize that Elise and Pat are making no move of their own to leave. A younger guy comes over from the Summer Stage group, carrying glow in the dark necklaces. He is shirtless, and wearing several necklaces himself. He says, “What’s up, Pat? How you been, Elise?” He hands each of them a few necklaces, and offers some to you as well.

You tell him, “Thanks, but I’m getting ready to head home.” You ask Elise and Pat, “How late are you planning to stay?”

Pat winks at you and says, “Go home and get some sleep. We’ll be just fine.”

Saturday afternoon, the ceiling fan on your porch is spinning in overdrive to move the humid air of the first full day of summer. You are sitting on your porch with a small group of neighbors, both adults and kids, making friendship bracelets. Today is PorchLuck in Jubilee Station. On this day, you and others welcome the town onto your front porches for a potluck of experiences, ranging from music to crafts to show and tell.

Mason, a tall middle schooler from down the street, holds his bracelet out in front of you and says, “Can you help me with the part that opens and closes?”

You say, “Yes, of course. It’s called a clasp. Let me show you.”

You pick a magnetic clasp out of the organizer in front of you on the coffee table. You and your visitors are all sitting cross-legged around the table, on the floor of the porch. As you listen to the gentle rhythm of neighbors sifting through beads, you thread the bracelet wire through the rings on each end of the clasp, crimping everything into place. You click the magnetic clasp together, and you look down on your handiwork, taking a satisfied breath.

Mason says, “Thank you! This looks sick.”

You say, “I love the pattern you made with the orange and pink.”

Mason hops up from his position at the table, waves goodbye to the group, and shuffles down your front stairs, looking at his phone as he goes. No sooner has he left your porch than another kid from the neighborhood sits down in his place.

She says, “Hello, You! I’m Olivia. This is so cool.”

You say, “Welcome, Olivia! I’m glad you stopped by. Now, what would you like to make?”

Your bracelet making session lasts two hours. The fire station in town sounds its siren once every two hours on the day of PorchLuck, from noon until sunset, letting everyone in town know when it’s time to start or finish sharing their experience. You give the last stragglers on your porch the time they need to finish up their work, as you clean up the stray beads and bits of wire that are strewn across your table.

When you have finished cleaning up, you put on some sunscreen and your floppy hat, before venturing into the day. All around you, neighbors are hanging out on each other’s porches. You hear a bluegrass band in the distance. You smell fresh pizza and wood smoke wafting down from the other end of your block. You stand on the sidewalk in front of your house, feeling the heat of the concrete coming through the soles of your sneakers, and you take a deep breath.

The Jessicas have invited you to stop by this afternoon, so you head to their houses, around the corner from yours. They live next to each other, with a huge shared playset in their backyard. They wave to you as you walk up to the porch of one of their houses, where a handful of kids are playing with a litter of puppies.

The first Jessica, who took over from you on the support wagon for the Cumberland March, says, “Hello, You! We’re fostering these puppies for a few weeks. Would you like to hold one?”

You say, “Yes, absolutely. How old are they?”

Before Jessica can answer, one of the kids pipes up and says, “Six weeks today!”

You sit down on the floor of the porch, inside the play fence that has been set up around the litter and their guests. Around you, the puppies are climbing across the legs of the human visitors, hopping up and down with excitement.

The other Jessica, who gave you a tour at the union hall several weeks ago, steps out the front door of the house. She says, “I’ll be surprised if they make it the whole two hours without a nap. They don’t exactly have a lot of stamina.” 

Sure enough, after about 20 more minutes, the puppies start clamoring for milk, which the two Jessicas and their kids feed to the litter. One by one, the puppies fall asleep in their arms. You quietly excuse yourself, stepping over the play fence, and stretching out your arms and legs with a yawn of your own.

From the edge of the porch, you see Fritz, the van driver, standing in his front yard across the street, in the middle of a rough circle of strange-looking metal boxes sitting on stands. Each of the boxes has a stovepipe sticking out of it. You head over to take a closer look.

Fritz sees you coming and calls out, “Gruss dich, You! Are you hungry?”

You say, “Yes. The puppies were just getting fed, and I was getting jealous.”

Fritz says, “Today we’re making the traditional flammkuchen. Ah, this is my wife, Anna.” A woman with graying hair at her temples waves a shy hello.

Fritz starts to open one of the boxes and says, “These are stainless steel pizza ovens. We make them ourselves at the shop. I could give one to you?”

Anna says, “Please, yes, we have far too many,” and gives Fritz a pointed look, which he ignores.

You say, “Thank you! I’d be happy to have one. I will need some lessons on how to use it.”

Fritz uses a metal pizza peel to remove a large flatbread from within, which he sets atop a platter on a nearby wooden table. The flatbread is covered with sliced mushrooms and onions, set in a light colored cheese. The edges of the crust are bubbly and dark from the heat of the oven. Anna sprinkles chopped scallions across the top and says, “Now we just give it a moment to rest.” You stand over the cooling flammkuchen, noticing the fragrant and earthy aroma of its steam, and you take a slow breath.

Anna hands you a pizza cutting wheel and a plate, and says, “You are the guest of honor. Help yourself.” You cut the rectangular flatbread into squares, lift up one for yourself, and take a bite, salty and melty and crunchy.

Fritz comes over, pizza peel slung over his shoulder, and says, “Well, what do you think?”

You say, “I think PorchLuck is my new favorite day of the year.”

Saturday morning finds you riding in a support van, through the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania, on your way to meet up with the Cumberland March. A group of people from Jubilee Station are taking three days to march from the town of Chambersburg back home, visiting sites from the Underground Railroad along the way. The tree canopy is so dense around you that you can barely see the hillsides above you, much less the strong June sun. A cool northwest breeze from the open windows musses your hair, and you feel the nubby fabric of the front passenger seat on the backs of your legs. You catch the sweet scent of linden trees along the side of the road, and you relax your eyes as you take a centering breath.

The van driver pulls onto the shoulder when you reach the group, and brings the van to a gentle stop. You hop out and head for the back cargo doors, where you have a wagon and supplies waiting for you. This morning, you will be hiking with the group for three hours, until another volunteer takes your place at lunchtime.

Joshua waves from the edge of the group of roughly 100 people. As he walks over to the van, he says, “Hello, You! I am so glad to see you.”

You say, “Good morning, Joshua. How’s your knee holding up?”

Joshua waves dismissively in your direction. He says, “Ah, it’s okay. It’ll grow back. I’m part starfish.”

You say, “Of course. In the meantime, can I interest you in a banana?”

Joshua says, “Yes, please. I slept through breakfast at the camp.”

The marchers cross over to your side of the road, and gather at a respectful distance as you pull everything out of the back of the van. You have a big water dispenser, a box of bananas, and a first aid kit. You step back once everything is set, and the crowd surges forward, mumbling thank yous and taking bananas for themselves.

The van driver asks you, “You are all set, ja?”

You say, “Yes, Fritz! Thank you for the ride.”

Fritz says, “See you at lunchtime. Tchuss!” He climbs in the van and drives away.

Grace fills up her water bottle, swallows a couple pills that she has pulled from her day pack, and comes over to pat your arm. She says, “Thank you for being here. It means a lot to me. To all of us.”

You say, “I wouldn’t miss it.”

The march continues, along a two lane highway that is still dark enough under the trees that passing cars have their headlights on. As the heat of the day rises, you are grateful for the shade, but also happy for the occasional clearing where you can look out across the ancient and rounded hills that shelter you.

Grace walks alongside you for a while. The two of you spend most of this time in a comfortable silence. At one point, she says, “It’s easy to think we are out here all alone, but the whole forest is keeping track of us.” You listen through the ragged footsteps of your neighbors for the sounds of squirrels, foxes, and deer. You take a long drink of the cool and crisp water you and Fritz brought here from home, and you draw in a deep breath.

As you near the lunch stop for the second day of the march, Joshua hobbles up to you, now wearing an elaborate brace on his left knee. You ask him, “Are you feeling alright?”

He says, “Yes. It hurts a little, but fortunately Grace is keeping me in ibuprofen.” The two of them smile wearily at each other.

You say, “I’m a little worried that you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Joshua says, “I think it’s meant to hurt a little bit, and that’s okay.”

The three of you continue marching, each consumed with your own thoughts.

Fritz returns at lunchtime, bringing one of the Jessicas as your replacement on the support wagon for the afternoon. You greet each other warmly, and work together to restock the wagon and to lay out the box lunches for the group. Everyone waves as you and Fritz pull away, heading back to town.

On Sunday afternoon, the marchers make their way into Jubilee Station, coming down the Cumberland Valley Road along the river, and turning up College Avenue for the last mile of the march onto the college campus. A large group of neighbors from the north side of town joins the march at the College Avenue Bridge. More people come out on each block, kids and parents and older people using walkers. By the time the group reaches the Juneteenth celebration concert on campus, there are over a thousand people marching together.

You find Joshua and Grace sitting together at the edge of the quad, with bags of ice on their knees and plates of watermelon on the table next to them.

You say, “I’m really proud of both of you for doing the whole march.”

Joshua says, “Thank you for stepping up with the Festival Committee so I could do this. Everybody did a great job. It’s good to be reminded that it’s not all on me.”

Grace beams at you, saying, “Look at you. Look at how you’ve joined us.”

You say, “You made it easy for me to join.”

Joshua says, “We still have so much work to do.”

Grace says, “Yes, we do. Isn’t that a good thing, though? To have meaningful work available to us in our time. What a gift.” The three of you fall silent, the sounds of the celebration washing over you. You feel the late afternoon sun on your back, and you take a contemplative breath.

Joshua reaches over to his plate, picks up a piece of watermelon, and hands it to you. He says, “I propose a toast. To the joiners. May we find each other, and always remember that we are not alone.”

Grace says, “Hear, hear.”

You say, “Thank you both for finding me.”

The three of you hold your slices of watermelon in the air for a moment, touching them to each other, and then you savor a bite that is bursting with the sweetness and warmth of other suns.

Friday morning finds you sitting on your porch, enjoying a cup of rooibos tea with honey and cream. You hold your careworn mug in both hands, feeling the residual warmth of its smooth sides. As you listen to the local carpenter bees taking interest in the holly tree out front, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

You hear a chorus of bike bells from the front walk, and you open your eyes to see DeAndre, Jayda, and their Dads, all waving to you. The kids drop their bikes in your yard and come scrambling up your front steps.

You say, “Good morning!”

Jayda says, “Good morning! Is your Mom around?”

You shake your head and say, “Not today. She lives in another town, so she went back home after she came to visit.”

The two kids look at each other, reaching a silent consensus.

DeAndre asks, “Will you come to Moving Up Day with us?”

Jayda adds, “It starts at 11:00. You will need your bike.”

You say, “Yes, I would love to join you. Can you tell me more about Moving Up Day?”

Jayda says, “We all go to visit our new schools. We ride our bikes, and we get to have lunch, and then we get to make some art!”

You say, “That sounds great. Where should I meet you?”

One of the Dads yells from the sidewalk, “Just come to the Care Center. They’re in Pre-K. We’re gonna ride to the elementary school.”

You say, “Got it! Okay, see you at 11. I guess I need to go get dressed.”

DeAndre says, “You can wear pajamas if you want to.”

The kids and their Dads depart again, with another chorus of bike bells, and you finish the last sips of your tea. You also send a text to your Mom, letting her know that the kids came looking for her.

When you pull up in front of the Care Center just before 11, there is a happy mob of parents outside, mingling with older residents from the Center. There are tables set up with coffee, tea, lemonade, and mini croissants from the French bakery. In the crowd, you run into Elise, the piano teacher, who reaches out for your hand and gives you an affectionate squeeze.

An energetic younger man stands up on a chair behind the tables and calls out, “Good morning, Pre-K families and friends!” The crowd calls back, “Good morning, Jed!”

Jed continues, “We will be on our way to Catto Elementary in just a moment. But before we go, I ask all of you to join me in a moment of silent reflection, followed by a round of applause. Our teachers and staff give their hearts and souls to these kids. The residents of the Care Center join us in loving your children every day. Please take a moment to think about a moment this year when you truly felt the love of this community, and then join me in appreciating the people who helped make that happen for all of us.”

Jed says, “Thank you. Okay, please make way for the Jubilee Station Care Center graduating class of 2025!”

The kids file out of the front doors of the Children’s House wing of the Care Center in twos and threes, already wearing their bike helmets. There are nearly 50 graduates, and their bikes are lined up in a shaggy row on the far side of the entrance courtyard. The crowd parts to make way for the kids, most of whom break into a run when their bikes are in sight.

A great cheer goes up in the distance, and Jed calls out, “That’s the kids from Catto going to middle school, which means… it’s our turn! Graduates, take us away!”

The Pre-K kids begin wobbling their way toward the exit. Some of them still have training wheels, but most have learned to balance for themselves. DeAndre races out to a quick start, passing everyone else, but he pauses in the street to wait when Jayda calls out to him, “DeAndre, we go together!”

Octavius Catto Elementary School is a short three blocks away from the Care Center, on Chamberlain Street in the west end of town. Along the route, there are people sitting on the edges of the street, cheering and ringing cowbells. Out in front of Catto, the students who will stay there next year are waiting to greet the newest kindergarteners, having just sent their own graduating fifth graders off to ride up to the middle school. Meanwhile, the 8th graders are heading from the middle school to the high school, and the 12th graders are journeying from the high school to the college. 

The Catto students roar with excitement when DeAndre, Jayda, and their classmates turn onto Chamberlain Street. When they arrive, the pre-K graduates run into their new home. Parents and neighbors gather outside the school for a picnic lunch under a tent. Jayda and DeAndre’s Dads find you in the tangle of bikes on the lawn.

One of them says, “Hello, You. I’m Kevin. Thanks so much for coming out.”

You say, “Thanks for inviting me. This is awesome.”

The other Dad says, “I couldn’t agree more! Hi, I’m Chris. Will you join us for lunch?”

You say, “Yes, I think I worked up a real hunger with that arduous journey.”

After lunch, the adults are invited into the school, where the Pre-K kids are in the kindergarten classrooms, making pictures to bring back to their teachers at the Care Center. You find a place to sit and a piece of construction paper of your own. While the kids finish up their work, you draw yourself and your Mom on your porch. You write at the bottom, “To Jayda and DeAndre, thanks again for our Mother’s Day treats!”

Finally, it’s time to head back. The Pre-K entourage rides to the Care Center, where the teachers and staff are waiting outside.

After Jayda and DeAndre have given their drawings to their teacher, you find them and give them your drawing. They say, “Did you make this for us?”

You say, “Yes, I did! Thanks so much for inviting me to join you.”

They run off to join their friends at the lemonade table, which has been restocked in your absence with cupcakes. You stand in the midst of the crowd, parents chatting, toddlers clambering over their parents’ bikes, and take a slow and easy breath.

Your Mom texts you and says, “I miss those kids, and you! Please tell them I say hi back.”

On the last Saturday in May, the weather has arrived in Jubilee Station seeming confused. The air feels both muggy and slightly chilly, and there are thunderstorms in the forecast for the evening. After lunch on your porch, you decide to chance a visit to The Everyone Playground, located at the end of your block. You have been living in town for two months, and you have been hearing about the place constantly, but you have yet to explore it for yourself.

There is a busy playground at the end of your block, next to the tram stop. But you see now that the playground next to the sidewalk is just a gateway. A broad path leads into the forest behind the climbing structure, and the kids at play wave to you as you pass. You step into a dense grove of Green Ash and Sugar Maple trees. You smell the damp soil of the forest floor, carried on the cooler air that gently brushes over your bare arms and legs. You pause on the trail, and take in the riches of the woods with an easy breath.

You can see a bright clearing ahead, but around you, the forest is alive with activity. Neighbors are hanging out in brightly colored hammocks in groups of twos and threes, deep in conversation, or napping. Overhead, a high ropes course threads its way through the tree canopy. Back on the ground, there are picnic tables and Adirondack chairs set away from the path, among the rhododendrons.

When you reach the clearing, the forest gives way to a huge open space, with gently rolling hills surrounded to the east and south by the steep ridge that forms the Jubilee Valley. There is a skate park next to a set of pickleball courts. A metal track snakes its way to the ridgeline, with kids and adults on sleds rocketing down the track into the park. You see a mini golf course, basketball courts, and too many picnic pavilions to count. In the center of the action is a large six-sided building, full of kids and adults, with signs on every side that say Play Library.

You don’t even notice Larry and Darryl from Concert Club standing next to you, until Darryl says, “Pretty great, isn’t it?”

You say, “Oh! Hello. I think I’m a little dazed.”

Larry says, “Hello, You! That makes sense. This is a lot.”

You say, “It sure is.” You notice they both have skate helmets in their hands.

Darryl points up the hill and says, “We’re heading for the race track. I wonder if you might like to join some middle aged Dads for a bit of racing on grown up sized big wheels?”

You say, “Yes, if I must.”

Darryl says, “You must. Let’s get you a helmet. The Library can help.”

The three of you walk over to the Play Library, where you check out a well-scrubbed helmet for yourself. You ask Larry and Darryl, “Do I need to borrow a big wheel, too?” They shake their heads, and Larry says, “We keep them up at the track.”

The track in question turns out to be a slightly banked concrete oval, with a glass-doored garage where the low-slung metal tricycles are stored and maintained. There is a stand of bleachers on one side, with a scattering of spectators sitting on them. 

Two dozen big wheels are massed on the track near the starting line. A bored-looking high school kid in a Parks and Rec T-shirt comes out to the head of the pack and says, “All right. The race is ten laps. No crashing on purpose. Everybody ready?”

The riders yell as a group, “Ready!”

The kid steps off to the side of the track, pulls a green flag from a tall box there, and waves it with no great enthusiasm. You snap the chin strap on your helmet into place, and you start pedaling forward, slowly at first because the pack is so close together. After a few seconds, though, it opens up. Soon you are ripping around the track, your legs burning and your heart pounding. You realize at some point that the big wheel can coast like a bicycle if you stop pedaling for a moment, and as you come out of a corner into the straightaway, you relax your body, delighting in the happy chaos around you, and take an elated breath.

You finish third, and the Dads, some of them limping slightly, pat your shoulder and say “Nice job, rookie,” as you and they exit the course. A group of younger adults are waiting their turn on the edge of the track, and the Parks and Rec employee looks considerably happier to see them.

Darryl says to you, “We’re heading to a picnic. Care to join us?”

You say, “Yes, I’d love to.”

Their picnic pavilion sits on a bluff overlooking the river, and is bursting with people and food. Larry hands you a plate when the three of you reach the head of the line, and you shuffle past a United Nations of offerings, including tandoori chicken with collard greens, bulgogi cheesesteaks, and a giant drink dispenser labeled chai horchata. You fix your plate and join the guys at a table with their families, where you field the usual volley of questions about your life in Jubilee Station.

After you finish eating, you get up to stretch your legs for a minute, and you walk over to the edge of the pavilion. Down by the river, you see earth movers crawling over huge piles of sand. You feel the wind at your back, flowing down from the ridge toward the water, and you take a satisfied breath.

Darryl arrives at your side again, only this time you notice him immediately. He takes in the scene with you and says, “That’s the River Beach. It opens in two weeks. Not quite summer yet, but it’s starting to feel that way around here.”

You say, “Yes, it really is.”