There’s no denying it. We are on the last gasp of summer. Children are back in school. Labor day is around the corner. Even in Los Angeles, where the heat will continue for a month or two, the mornings are darker, the marine layer more persistent. Usually I welcome fall (or rage that I live in a place where Autumn doesn’t happen until November) but this year I find myself longing for an Indian summer.
What does summer promise us, after all, but time? Time to sunbathe, to read, time to picnic, to go to outdoor concerts, to vacation, to relax. In my mind, summer isn’t just a noun – it’s a verb. I’d summer on a lake, in a whitewashed cottage, where the only demands on me involved swimming, telling stories, eating tomato sandwiches, and drinking rose.