I whooshed past a field of goldenrod today. A blur of yellow. The summer itself feels like a blur, a grainy Polaroid with indistinct lines and a few dabs of color.
In July I spent four days at Glimmerglass Opera (read my review of the season here). Itâ€™s a hobbit-y part of country, a slightly tamer, more cultivated hollow of the Finger Lakes. The hills cradle you close, and the lake echoes the blue stillness of the skies. Iâ€™ve been going to Glimmerglass for several years, and this time I was thrilled to discover (in addition to a newly-opened coffee shop across the road from the Young Artistsâ€™ headquarters) a small nature preserve behind the Alice Busch Opera Theater. A trail leads to a raised boardwalk through the marsh where green dragonflies, blue herons, and flying squirrels dart through the trees. Enchanting.
There was another surprise. I stayed in a small motel on Lake Otsego. Across the street sat a large, grand white inn with a huge, wrap-around porch and a â€śFor Saleâ€ť sign sticking out of the weeds. Sumac trees jutted out of the garden beds. The roof was caving in. The paint, peeling. I couldnâ€™t resist, so I walked across the road, climbed up crumbling concrete stairs and past the yawning cellar door onto the porch. It was as quiet as an Egyptian tomb. I peered into one of the front windows, into a vast room filled with light. At first, I thought it was totally empty; no pictures on the wall, no furniture, no stuff. Then my eyes fell on a metal cage in the middle of the room and a very-much-alive black and white rabbit looking back at me, calmly munching pellets. I loved that rabbit.
Sometimes the best things happen when you peer past the facade. Part the curtain and look.