The Summit

Humans love to be at the top, the very high point. I was on the top of Mount Wachusett yesterday, the first time in ten years. It felt good. Here I am and don't try to stop me. It was hazy and you couldn't see Boston as you sometimes can from there. It didn't look like anyone lived down there. You couldn't see McDonald's or Arby's. I had hoped to see some hawks cruising around in the thermal gusts, but they were somewhere else. Possibly at McDonald's or Arby's, I guess.

It's a good place to go. It ain't Pike's Peak. It's not tarted up with vendors selling bumper stickers and slick brochures. It's probably been this way for 50 years or more. A plain black and white poster shows the silhouettes of various hawks. Turkey, carabara, okay I made that up because I can't remember the various hawk types. There must have been 10 or 12. Somebody studies that stuff.

I'm ready to finish Victory.

I have a whisper of an idea for my next book. Nothing more than a picture, a sense, but maybe a story.

By luck, a former student of mine took two dollars from my car to drive up the mountain. He didn't remember my name and I didn't remember his. A good reminder to me of something, I'm not sure what.

July is the very essence of perfection in New England. It's green everywhere and warm. Birds trill and sing and some of them squawk. If I get reincarnated as a bird, I hope I get to be one with a pleasant song.

Not much to report.

becky