Between misty dawn and eternal sunsets, lies a trap for Corvette compulsives.
A Corvette compulsive is one who is driven to be in or near Corvettes, for as long as daylight allows. Some of these people are gardeners and golfers; others are hedge clippers and sidewalk trimmers; still others boat, fish or camp outdoors.
Compulsives are controlled in December by days that end in darkness at 5:00 pm. Early sunsets force an arbitrary halt to skiing, ice fishing and winter walks before exhaustion ensues.
Not so in July, when fifteen hour days demand that sports car fanatics temper excess with restraint. Most of them - myself included - fail miserably. There's simply too much freedom, especially on weekends. The reins of the summer season are too loose!
Give us fifteen hours of sunshine, and we react like sweet-toothed kids on a mountain of Mars bars. We see winter as a thirty mile per-hour zone and Summer as an open highway where speed limits are mere suggestions.
Face it. We go totally over-board. Even with the gas crunch, we rise at dawn to read a map on where to travel for the day. Just a look in the garage at the Corvette, with the sun roof off, makes us glad we got up.
After breakfast, we tackle household chores. Once finished, pack lunch and some goodies. Always a thermos of coffee and we're off for the day.
A breeze has picked up. Its rhythm surges and falls. The sky is azure blue and the clouds like mountains of whipped cream.
Three blinks of an eye and its noon. My favorite ride is to the city pier in Canandaigua. For over 50 years we've had the same experience. It is familiar and our psyche needs that. We stroll on the sidewalk along the pier to watch boats and people. Complaints from life's earthly cares; I have none at this moment in time.
After a ride around the lake, we reassure each other that "life is good."
Returning home at evening we sit on our porch and wait for darkness to fall. And wait. And wait. It takes forever; the days of July to get dark.
Ever slowly the sky turns from blue to pink to purple. Mars, Saturn and fireflies glitter. Crickets rub wings and make music. A final wood thrush still its fluted song.
Finally, we crawl into bed and crash, exhausted. What if we lived in Alaska, we ponder. That midnight sun would probably do us in.
A Corvette wave to each of you these days of July,
Donna
