Few things tempt me like the hammock that swings in the shade of the pine trees beside our cottage. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that having it there, calling to me as it does, I’d sidle on over and plop down with a good book on a regular basis.
But no. Every time I look outside someone has beaten me to it. All three of my boys are suspect—whoever can get there first, will. One day the kitchen timer beeped, and I watched as my youngest grabbed his book and ran out to the side yard, “Your time’s up!” he yelled gleefully, bumping his big brother from the coveted spot. Apparently the three of them had worked out a rotating half-hour schedule, leaving no time for mom to swing into peaceful oblivion.
Today, though, those three boys are 600 miles away, playing at the pool with their grandma and cousins. My good friend came up yesterday to enjoy a day at the beach sans-niños, and share a glass or two of wine. This morning, we worked off aforementioned calories by walking the puppy and ourselves for an hour and a half. When she took off for home, I eyed up the hammock. I grabbed my novel (American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld) and headed outside. The breeze was blowing, the shade was bliss on another hot day, and I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet.
Now that’s peaceful.
