The only clue that it’s mid-June are the pink petunia’s careworn under the heft of pooling water, in hanging planters along Commercial Street and the taped to pole posters announcing this weekend’s Scandinavian Festival.
Here, we live in a constant state of dew, and this morning, rain in frog-sized drops, means our fishing trip requires rubber boots and Gunderson overall’s. If this were November, the downpour would have come sideways and lasted all day, but for now, it has stopped, left a simple, lighter-gray sky.
The trunk of my car is always moist, a leak in the foam stripping I can’t seem to fix and so I don’t dare leave a bag locked in overnight—even my tackle box suffers. Next time the sun shines, I'll leave it open to fresh air and warmth.
Those from out-of-state, or a few hours inland, may today, feel the desert winds, and dream of saltwater taffy’s and sinking their feet into warm sand as they watch the waves and throw a Frisbee, but those who come will be surprised to find the locals reading their news at the coffee shop in the same pill-balled, gray sweaters they wore all winter, the same looks on their faces—that is, if you’re from out of town. But those who do live here will know that man is particularly happy, it’s summer and so he’s left his house on the hill for the bookstore, the first time in six weeks and that just spotting him milling about, saying, “hello,” is an expression of Finnish joy.
Knowing all the private, local gems and their midsummer smiles takes many a year of rainy-day exploration.
