My mother would call today sticky. It’s humid again, but at least there’s a breeze. I can hear the leaves rustling, whispering to one another. The breeze is from the north, a strange direction for this time of year. My neighbors across the street have their windows open and their blinds raised, also strange. I can’t help but picture my neighbor as a Granny Clampett lookalike sitting in a rocking chair by the open window with a shotgun in her hands in case of varmints. I’m staying clear.

It hasn’t rained in forever. All the fields are brown. They crunch when you walk on them. The weatherman says maybe thunderstorms this weekend. I’m hoping he’s right.

One summer I went to girl scout day camp, Camp Aleska in the woods across from the zoo. The camp had a lodge with one giant room lined in benches which opened for storage, a huge fireplace, a counselor’s room, the kitchen and a bathroom. On the grounds were several picnic tables, each in a small glade and each for one unit of scouts. Behind the lodge, all through the woods, were wide trails covered in pine needles. Every morning we formed a circle around the pole, held hands and sang during the raising of the flag, and every afternoon we formed another circle and sang Taps when it came down. We, the oldest scouts, had the honor of raising the flag and taking it down at the end of the day. We weren’t very good at it. We couldn’t stop laughing. Our shoulders would shake when we tried not to laugh out loud. I think we were called a disgrace a couple of times, but it didn’t matter. We just couldn’t stop ourselves. One would start and the rest of us would follow. They finally took the honor away. Even then, during the afternoon circle, we couldn’t look at each other without laughing. We were at the wrong age to appreciate ceremony.

I became a counselor at the camp. They must have forgiven my youthful indiscretions.