So two quotes come to mind as I begin this week’s column. The first comes from Kevin Spacey in the movie The Usual Suspects: “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” The second comes from my Grammy: “Women are tricky.”
I’ve never heard of holding August in July, but I’m sure someone had a good reason for doing it. I wonder if we’ll get July in August? Or another August. Or a Jaugust? Only thing that could have made this July a wee bit more August-y would have been a hint more arrogance.
So many sailboats. For an hour or two on Saturday morn, they huddled like bored school children in the doldrums by the gut. I mustered as much sympathy as I could for their stagnant state, before continuing my sweat-infused toil on the bluff above them.
Somebody had best do something about this heat soon before we all get cranky. Is it always hot here in the summer? On top of all of it, my mom just informed me that she’ll be coming down for three weeks in September. That’s a good thing, right? Boy, it sure is hot. And, like bad poetry, the humidity repeats it’s refrain with nary a nuance of change. Is it always humid here in the summer?
Kim and I have just returned from a quick trip to Logan (dropping nephews off, and spending an hour with our new friend Amy, Jet Blue check-in trainee), and a visit to Kim’s homeland, Lake Winnipesaukee. Had a lovely time. Truly beautiful part of the country. No moose sightings, but still fun. So, I may have missed a bit of Chappy “happy”-nings, but I just make most of this stuff up anyway. Welcome back us! Thank you!
It can be awfully hard to please Chappy folks sometimes. (What’s that saying? You can please some of the people sometime, but Chappy people none of the time. Something like that.) Despite the wonderful weather we’ve been graced with, some are bemoaning the fact that summer has been hastened by this boon. The blueberries are out, the climbing roses have bloomed, and the mosquitoes have blossomed. But will it all last until the important people arrive? Ah, there’s the rub.
First, a correction: Uncle Jimmer (Eric Hartell) wrote to inform me that the original Seager Chappy patriarch was named Sam, not David. I think Uncle Jimmer used to be an editor or something, so he’s a stickler for facts. And he’s the grandson of Sam. Or something like that. Probably wrong about that too.
This is my inaugural summer column as the Chappy correspondent. I follow a long line of accomplished ladies: Varian Cassat, Margaret Knight and Jo-Ann Tilghman, to name a few. Some pretty big shoes to fill, I might add. Not that any of those ladies had large feet. Not that there’s anything wrong with big feet. Or small feet.
I’m still here. Margaret is still away. Searching for the Lost City of Gold in the jungles of the Amazon, I believe she said. Or maybe she’s just driving an El Dorado. I rarely listen to what I’m being told unless I’m being complimented.
