Nearly sixteen hours of daylight now, here in the north country. We eat a late supper, take the dog for a short constitutional, watch an episode of something or other on Netflix, and then read for an hour—and it is still not dark. So we go to bed before nightfall.

But, we also get up not too long after daylight. "Who would want to lie abed in a summer dawn, when the air is filled with birdsong? as has been said.

Perfect summer day—clear, bright, and fresh, with a frisky west wind. All windows open. I shirked my afternoon duties and went sailing— upwind past Gray Point and then along the shore north of Murray ad Elaine's, then a broad reach down to the east shore of the bay where I saw another sail, then a close reach out around Gooseberry Island with Patrick and Rachel trying to keep up in their yellow boat (never quite making it), then back to the marina with the yellow boat fading into the distance. Such fun.

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In winter, woodcutting; in summer, gardening. Our calendar is never so precisely divided, for cookwood must be rustled up in summer and the garden is a year-round concern.

All our living is regulated by the revolving seasons. They determine what we do, what we think and talk about, what we eat, the pattern of each day. Our house adjusts to the seasons, opening in summer and closing against the winter’s cold. The time of our getting up in the morning depends on when the sun rises. Who would want to lie abed in a summer dawn, when the air if filled with birdsong?

—Harlan Hubbard, Payne Hollow