"I'm ready to make--out of whatever you give me--a story."

Incomparable things about this part of the world:

Hay carts everywhere, empty and waiting for August. (If you've never seen a hay cart, they look like enormous cages made of wood, often painted blue or red, and when they are pulled, they are pulled by tractors. The rest of the time, like now, they sit empty at the edges of the sprawling hay fields that are all across the state, and they are gorgeous.)

Men can call me "dude" and still, somehow, be flirting with me. (How is it that they look so strong and outdoorsy even in the summer, when they are dressed just like everyone anywhere that's hot? It's like they are wearing invisible flannel shirts.)

The primary ways people suggest hanging out are a) going swimming or b) eating ice cream. (The lake is warm now--people are saying in the seventies--though I haven't been in yet. And when we talk about ice cream up here, we call it "creemees." As in, "I'll meet you down at the creemee stand after dinner," which is a phrase I have uttered countless times in my life, including earlier today.)

Lyra, in the passenger seat of the car (don't tell JRoss) with the window all the way down and her front paws on the armrest, her head out the window so that the wind pushes her ears back and her mouth is open and grinning. (Even better is when she turns back and looks at me, like, "Hey! Mom! Can you see? This is so fucking awesome!")