Where I go

These past many weeks long, my friends have written from far-off, quiet places—cabins near the shore, cabanas high on the beach, the slip of land beside the lake, a grandfather's lodge.  They've been reading and writing, staked out on a chair, cracking clamshells at night, throwing a lobster to the grill.  These are writers and readers, taking time away to do what they most love to do.



We haven't had that sort of summer here (though I have yearned for such a day or two).  Now it's August's e...