Has anyone seen summer? It was here a minute ago. Talk about a quick change. I almost feel responsible. I couldn’t resist a great sale on mums, so I pulled out my impatiens a bit earlier than usual (they were getting scraggly, anyway) and planted mums. A jinx? Hope not.

I’m not big on fall. I know some people see the change of seasons as a new beginning — especially autumn with its whole back-to-school theme. I feel that way about spring; not fall. For me, fall heralds a descent into the dark days of winter. So, I’ll hang on to every bit of summer I can. There will be more days spent at the beach. I predict a few remaining real beach days and, after that, a few sweatshirt days perfect for settling in with the Sunday newspaper.

And I’m certainly not packing away my flip-flops. They stay out year-round because no matter where I am in the world or when I’m there, summer is just a short flight away.

The best description of a writer/reporter I’ve heard is “an observer for hire.” As a longtime reporter (I started out with a local beat for a daily newspaper and still consider myself a reporter at heart), I like to watch events unfold from the sidelines, ask a lot of questions, and find a story. 

Back when I started out at the newspaper, I had to file a story six days a week – Sunday through Friday. Sometimes that was easy; other times not so much. I’d hang out at Town Hall, chat up the police chief; stop by the firehouse — always looking for the next big scoop.

When I got the story ― and scooped my competition — it was a great feeling. But sometimes there just wasn’t very much going on. On those days, my editor, an old-fashioned newspaper man, would remind me that occasionally the story is that there is no story.

You know the old adage, “You can’t get theah from heah.” It’s proving true in the case of my nephew who just started his first year at Cornell University. It seems there is no direct route between Boston and Ithaca. It’s only a six-hour drive, so that’s always an option, but he chose (wisely, I think) not to bring his car to school with him.

My sister (his mother) and I have researched planes, trains and buses galore. There’s just no direct route that we can find. A US Airways flight through Philadelphia appears to be the most expeditious route, but buses and trains follow meandering routes that add hours to the trip. So, it looks like he’ll by flying home occasionally and, probably more often, relying on the school’s ride board.

Ride boards today are much different from the ones that existed when I was in college. Way back then, the “board” was an actual bulletin board, usually posted in the university bookstore. Students looking for passengers to share the cost of gas posted sheets of paper which they “fringed” at the bottom to create tabs with their contact information. Interested parties pulled off a tab, called and negotiated a ride fee ― very “dark ages” compared to today’s online means of communicating.

I was pretty homesick during the first few weeks of my first year at college. I was a student at a school about a 12-hour drive home, so zipping in for a weekend visit wasn’t really an option. Still, the ride boards caught my eye. My parents were not keen on the idea of me “accepting a ride from a stranger,” but I eventually made the call without their permission and arranged a ride with a law student who was returning home to Boston. We were joined by another first-year student who wanted to visit a friend at MIT. The door-to-door fee was $25.

After an uneventful overnight ride ― I slept most of the way ― I arrived home at about 9 a.m. on a Friday morning. My Dad was work; my Mom was out; and my siblings were at school. When my Mom arrived home about a half hour later, I scared her to death. (I hadn’t told my parents I had decided to take matters into my own hands.) Following a rather lengthy lecture, I spent the weekend visiting with friends and family; happily boarding the train to return to school on Sunday night.

Homesick no more, I learned a valuable lesson that weekend; a lesson that, perhaps, ignited my wanderlust. You can go home again, but getting out and experiencing the world makes each homecoming all that much sweeter.

I just returned from a vacation in my own backyard. Okay, I wasn’t exactly in my backyard, but I was pretty darn close. This year, we decided for the first time in ages to take a summer vacation. What’s so unusual about that, you might ask. We’re beach people who are lucky enough to live within easy access distance of some of the most beautiful beaches on the Massachusetts coastline. In other words, vacation or not, we spend most of our free time from May to October at the beach.

So, this year’s vacation wasn’t so much about the destination (the beach of course). It was about shaking up our routines, weaning ourselves from email and voicemail, and remembering how to live in the moment. We ventured just 70 miles to the Cape Cod town of Orleans where we settled into a rented house about a miles from Nauset Beach.

And a funny thing happened on the way to tranquility. Instead of getting caught up on email first thing every morning, I went out to a local bakery to pick up breakfast and the daily newspapers - then I read them all cover to cover. Instead of grabbing a snack and eating in front of my computer, I packed a lunch and headed for the beach. Instead of sticking my nose in my issue workbook to review pages in progress, I reclined in my beach chair and watched a herd of seals frolic offshore. And instead of returning to the computer after dinner, I stretched out on the deck and watched the stars fill the night sky.

I’m back at my computer now, but it’s with a renewed enthusiasm. Sometimes it’s necessary to shake up your routine a bit in order to appreciate all the good things about life.

-Lisa Matte, editor-in-chief

Sometimes when I’m mulling a decision or trying to figure out how to address a problem, I’ll realize I have song lyrics running through my head. It’s not because I’ve been listening to music and ended up with a “song stuck in my head.” I can be sitting in complete silence and gradually become aware of the lyrics that have been pushing their way forward into my consciousness. The weird thing is, the lyrics almost always relate to situation I’m facing and, often, hint at the possible solution.

Some say music in a universal language. Maybe it is. At the very least, it’s a common denominator among races and cultures. A song doesn’t have to be familiar to be recognizable. Regardless of its roots and without understanding the lyrics, we can all recognize an upbeat tune, a sad song, a love song. In some ways, music ties us together across otherwise impenetrable differences — or even just across generations.

At a recent family gathering, one of my relatives pulled out a guitar and began to play and sing old standards (“Homeward Bound”) and folk songs (“Charlie on the MTA”). The age range at the party ranged from 14 to 75, but we all knew the lyrics and sang along. And now that damn “Charlie on the MTA” song is stuck in my head.

 - Lisa Matte, Editor-in-chief