It was the best of times, it was the best of times.
The summer of '78 was my last total feel-good summer.
Nana was still alive, my cousins still came down every weekend,
we were racing three boats every summer Saturday, and the goings-
on around 829 Southdrive were as they always had been since the
beginning of time: Epic. In my mind at least.
Mary Wagner died the following summer, and all of a sudden
our idyllic summer haven teetered on extinction. By then, my Dad
had become disenchanted with the rat-race of driving three hours
each way to his childhood summer house from Lancaster, Pa.
A steady crew was harder and harder to find for the E scow,
and the combination of excessive motorboat traffic and waves
on the racecourse drove my Dad to take stock. There was always
a distant estuary to the south that called him home. The Chesapeake.
I still have dreams about that house at the end of South Drive,
and almost always, I'm in the current owners' domain, while they're
not there. Convenient, huh? Weird though.
My readers (2) by now should be able to appreciate the
nostalgic side to their author. Humor me please.
