1985 Again.

It's the summer of 1985 all over again. A cacophony of cicada serenades. Serrated lightening in stormy skies. Fragrant lawns of trimmed grass. Fireflies. Fire pits. Fireworks. Bare footed, bronze legged and bathing suited.  All we are missing is the Gipper.

 

It was an imposing, classified C-17  that curried my crew back to the East coast- the apparent bastion of scathing sarcasm and residual revolution. Disparate descriptors? I think not. I believe it was Benjamin Franklin who quipped, "Taxation without representation? Yes, Please!" (*wink*) And the rest was history. Of course, this prejudiced view of the entire Eastern seaboard is the product of Hawaiian folklore- retired surfers and aspiring actress/models who find snow and cynicism rather insufferable.

I digress.

 
Since our arrival at Dover AFB, our dance card has been full with all those lovely things of  summer- Lawn mower thrill rides with my dad. Church softball in folding chairs. Old Friends. New babies. Peanut butter and fluffernutter sandwiches on white bread. (gasp!) VBS closing programs- arms, wild in musical "motions." Donuts and burgers and ice-cream- unjustified. Surrey jaunts on uneven boards. Sweaty kisses and sandy hugs. Cousins. Copious cousins. And stretched-out, burnt days at the beach. The summer of 1985 all over again. All we are missing is Reagan.