Summer. Michigan. Early morning sky before sunrise, no longer dark with night, shows a few sparse, low clouds in the east as the first song sparrow wakes to sing, and a small breeze stirs bedsheets hung the night before on the line. (In the coming hours they will dry in the sun.) Inside the house I can see to walk around without lamps but need more light to make the coffee and put away clean plates from last night’s dinner as the small breeze insinuates itself through window screens, mixing outdoors with indoors: moving air and birdsong, but lamplight and wood floors, this is the early summer morning, open windows inviting the outdoors in. We have slept with sounds of night in the freshening air, as if we were tent camping in the woods, and now we wake slowly to the slowly waking world of meadow and forest edge. The house is as still as an old sepia-toned photograph, holding itself motionless, all its objects holding their breath, so that the only indoor sounds of life are breathing and brewing coffee, the more compelling notes calling through the windows from the world outside, “Come out! Come out! Come out!” Later, in sunlight, all the world will be awake and hurrying through the day. Now is the sweet, small hour, still within and beginning so gently to stir without, the hour that can be one’s own to walk in silently and gratefully. “Come out! Come out! Come out!”
Later I arrive in Northport to find the sky clouded over but town bustling with activity. Besides all the boats in the harbor, Friday is farm market day.
Of all the many things George Anderson has done for his community, this is by far my favorite. “May I take your picture?” He was happy to oblige.
I shared a few small bites of croissant with Sarah, but she was still happy to rummage around in the bottom of the bag for crumbs.
The sky cleared, the sun came out, and everyone was happy. It was a busy day in the bookstore with customers and friends--overlapping categories, I’m happy to say—and a lovely evening at home at the end of the day.