Rocky and I spent the afternoon at Blackacre. There is a slew of baby goats, including two sets of triplets (one of which we happened upon shortly after their birthing), and Babe the standardbred has a frisky two-week-old foal named Skylar. The heat was not stifling, merely sleepy-making, and Ry and I ambled down to the spring house pond to look for frogs. Last time we were there the frogs kept saying “MEEP!” and jumping in as we approached. Weird. No meeping frogs this time, and no mulberries, but we watched two black and white dragonflies do midair crazy-dances, fish rising and sinking to disappear back into the murky brown water, giant tadpoles hovering, the water reflecting ripples of light onto the undersides of leafy overhanging boughs. As Rocky tossed stones to see if the wake would touch the opposite bank, I lay back on the moss and napped.
And somewhere in there I had this vision. We were up in the ledges on Westport Island, my brother Bill and I climbing trees at the edges of the clearing, while Dad napped in the summer light, stretched out on the granite made warm by the sun. The bell buoys sounded in the distance. A plane droned quietly by, far away overhead. Ocean breeze rustled the treetops. It was a particular warm summer quiet that could only be found in that place.
I woke when my 55-pounder plopped down onto my stomach. My nap, as divine as it was, was apparently over. We climbed slowly up the rock-hewn steps to the old spring house, paused to listen to the spring water dripping and feel the damp dim cool inside the solid stone walls, wandered back through the dust to the double-crib barn, gathered wildflowers in the afternoon light and finally, said goodbye for the day and headed back to cars and people and home.