Summer Under Prince George

My magnolia tree is sprouting the sparest of burgeoning blossoms. The grass is fully green. The deck, already broken in with Asheton’s goodbye party (pictures coming soon), will be waterproof and capable of withstanding Atlanta’s monsoons. The cooler of a lifetime has been purchased, Paul and Cath’s move to the ‘hood completed. All of it in preparation for the summer.

We will be raising the roof while the world burns: barbecue, mixed grill, fresh salmon from halfway around the world, Icelandic hotdogs, crawfish, all sorts of Germanic and Bohemian sausage delights, trout and an enormous cooler full of iced-down beers—all at bargain prices.

We’ll have children and dogs and lemonade and birds. We’ll relax in the wet embrace of the Southern summer—the blanket of warmth that wraps you tightly and never lets you go. As the night comes on, the frenzy of the avian dusk will give way to the nocturnal song of the living South.

Corvette Summer. Corvette Summer to you.