I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

New England is not without its charms in the summertime. For instance, already one can sit on the porch without being bothered by bugs or sweat. Fewer thunderstorms threaten outdoor activities. The sky gains its vivid autumnal blue, sheds its heat haze, much earlier.

I do still miss many of the South's summer pleasures, chief among them the peaches. I'm not too sure about heaven, but I am certain of that first bite into a just-picked peach, the perfect consistency, the perfect sweetness, with just a little juice dripping over the fuzz. I have tried to find them here. In the grocery store, they are hard as little rocks, and then they over-ripen in a day, to a mealy, bitter-sour-barely-sweet thing that disintegrates before it's really on your teeth. I hear they do grow them nearby. So I went to the farmer's market, but the pickings were slim. I'm going to try again this weekend, since I haven't been around for many weekends since early July. But look, in the South they put them in bushels on the side of the road. They're pushed on you by well-meaning church ladies, parents of your dance pupils, relatives. The abundance is almost hard to avoid.

But I'm here. Not there. So if all else fails, I'm going to demand the birthday girl take me here, because the description in this NYT article almost has me convinced they could run a real race with Georgia there.

Do I dare?


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