The meaning of July.

July, the fulcrum of summer, the point on which the delicate balance between delight and dread balances: each year at about this time, I can no longer banish the mathematics of summer, that accounting of what one has actually done divided by what one had originally hoped to do, the resulting figure indicating just how little time is left.

This accounting is, of course, happening, in some back corner of my brain. The numbers guy back there is using an abacus, probably, and also is smoking a rank cigar. The faint curl of smoke you can detect in a certain light, coming out my ears? That's him, all right. He will not let me forget.

However, since the arrival of the Scotland Contingent, with its retinue of granddaughters, the capacious front rooms of my brain are filled with popsicles and sprinklers, bathing suits, going to the park, story-reading and drawings and sweeties and cousins and grandsons, parties and magic. And in a snug downstairs bedroom of my house (and also my brain), two little girls are sleeping, one with a bunny, the other with a bear. And tomorrow, we will pile into cars and motor on up to Idaho, so that we can all do a little river magic together this summer.

What I'm suggesting is that at the moment, the big overstuffed life I lead is allowing me to ignore my grouchy accountant. I know I will have to talk to him sooner or later. But right now, there are a highway, several dinner parties, a bundle of rivers, hopefully some wildlife, and lots of watercolors, paper dolls, chocolate, cookies and wildflowers between us. Later is way better than sooner to settle the accounts. In the meantime, hooray for July!