Summer Nights
Have I told you about summer evenings in Walla Walla?
Did I tell you about the first night I was in Walla Walla with Dave, sipping icy Coronas on his parents deck, staring at a million stars dusted over a black velvet sky, the air beginning to cool, the heat still drifting up from the pavement, the wood of the deck railing still warm to the touch, the smell of the onion fields, the rhythmic ch-ch-ch of the irrigation sprinklers...and Dave...leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, a smile on his face, his cap turned backwards, his boots propped up on the chair..."It doesn't get any better than this, Shelley. It just doesn't."
As in so many things, he was right. Completely right. There isn't anything better. And I don't mean just the Walla Walla part. (Although that one evening is the single reason Dave could convince me to move here.) There is something so deeply satisfying about that feeling, when you've put in a long, hard day, working or driving or whatever, out in the hot sun, and then, when the sun goes down, feeling the coolness of the night begin to cover the day, feeling the ache across your shoulders and the iciness of a cold drink, beads of water rolling over your fingers, and seeing the one you love most, nearby, content, relaxed, happy to just be together.
I imagine that is happening in more places than Walla Walla. In Chicago and Auburn and Kelso and Long Beach and Puyallup and Seattle and New York.
Tonight, I stood in our driveway, an ache in my back from mowing the lawn, my legs stinging with a million little scratches from laying bark, my hands throbbing from wielding a shovel. I breathed deeply, feeling the tinge of cool in the still-warm air and saw a full moon, shadowy light filling our yard. It felt good. Felt good to work hard when it's 93 degrees outside. Felt good to accomplish something. And it felt good to breathe deeply of that Walla Walla summer night air.
Clink! This one's for you, Dave.
Did I tell you about the first night I was in Walla Walla with Dave, sipping icy Coronas on his parents deck, staring at a million stars dusted over a black velvet sky, the air beginning to cool, the heat still drifting up from the pavement, the wood of the deck railing still warm to the touch, the smell of the onion fields, the rhythmic ch-ch-ch of the irrigation sprinklers...and Dave...leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, a smile on his face, his cap turned backwards, his boots propped up on the chair..."It doesn't get any better than this, Shelley. It just doesn't."
As in so many things, he was right. Completely right. There isn't anything better. And I don't mean just the Walla Walla part. (Although that one evening is the single reason Dave could convince me to move here.) There is something so deeply satisfying about that feeling, when you've put in a long, hard day, working or driving or whatever, out in the hot sun, and then, when the sun goes down, feeling the coolness of the night begin to cover the day, feeling the ache across your shoulders and the iciness of a cold drink, beads of water rolling over your fingers, and seeing the one you love most, nearby, content, relaxed, happy to just be together.
I imagine that is happening in more places than Walla Walla. In Chicago and Auburn and Kelso and Long Beach and Puyallup and Seattle and New York.
Tonight, I stood in our driveway, an ache in my back from mowing the lawn, my legs stinging with a million little scratches from laying bark, my hands throbbing from wielding a shovel. I breathed deeply, feeling the tinge of cool in the still-warm air and saw a full moon, shadowy light filling our yard. It felt good. Felt good to work hard when it's 93 degrees outside. Felt good to accomplish something. And it felt good to breathe deeply of that Walla Walla summer night air.
Clink! This one's for you, Dave.
posted by Shelley at 11:25 PM
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