The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

We went on vacation. Everyone was on vacation. Some people had to work--B and M went home to work the first week; S and J went home to work the second week; a few of us worked there. But generally it was vacation.

It was beautiful. The weather can be summed up in one word: sun. The place can be summed up in a small handful of words: blue, green, mountain, lake, river.

There were kayaks and marshmallows and fishing rods and hikes and vodka tonics and bikinis. There were books to read in hammocks and on decks. There were children to play with. There were adults to take long swims and long walks and long talks with. There were expeditions and swimming parties and barbecues. Sometimes I felt like we were just one big ridiculous Gourmet-in-the-Ruth-era photo spread.

It was the ur-vacation. It was the platonic ideal of vacations.

And then there was the war. Here we were on a golden summer vacation with our blissfully happy children. There American marines were dying and Iraqi soldiers were dying, and their children--well, I can’t even write about their children because it makes me want to cry, or throw up, or cry and throw up.

I keep thinking about the summer of 1914. They said the summer of 1914 was the most perfect English summer ever. And then came the fall of 1914 and the next four years, and the world collapsed around them. This is different, of course: this is the most perfect summer and the world collapsing all at once. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m just being melodramatic, on either count, or on both.

But I keep thinking of those children of dead soldiers as the summer burns on.