There is something magical about the early days of summer, a feeling of buoyancy from the longer days perhaps. I was lucky enough to get an afternoon in York, Maine the Saturday before last and soaked up as much atmosphere as I could to carry on my way. It had been a gray, yet mild start to the day, but by the afternoon the sun had made an appearance casting light on the lingering clouds. I love to be by the water, in fact I have to make it to the shore at least once every year, a sort of pilgrimage if you will. The lungful of fresh air, the open sky, the water, sand and stones, the sense of timelessness, all renew me. If I can’t get to the shore, a lake, pond or stream will carry me over. At heart I am a water-baby, though I wonder if a sea of grass would have the same effect. But the plains are a bit far away to test that theory easily. As a child I didn’t spend every summer at the shore, though I can remember family trips in that fragmented way of a child’s mind. I spent more time at the lake, though again, less than my memories would lead me to believe. It seemed as if every last day of school was a sunny one, and as soon as my feet hit the pavement as I got off the bus we would head to camp. Yet in reality we went only a few times over the summer. A day here and there, an overnight or two. But those trips loomed larger in my child mind until I got verification to the opposite as an adult. It was just one of those tricks a mind plays on you when some childhood place is special. And that is okay, childhood should be that way, full of special places to roll about in your mind and treasure.