31

The Book of Summer

Harriet E. Rutter

September 1, 1941

Cliff House Everlasting

That FDR is a real wet blanket, isn’t he?

“Yes, we are engaged on a grim and perilous task. Forces of insane violence have been let loose by Hitler upon this earth.”

Thanks, Frank. You’re a real sport. A sunshine sally, to the gills.

For Pete’s sake. As if we don’t know a war is coming. He didn’t have to tell us about it on Labor Day when we should be drinking and dancing and having a grand old time. Poor Ruby is already skulking about, pickled about this and that. Not that I blame her. She is the heart of this family, by and by. And soon all will go their separate ways. What next summer might bear, who the devil knows.

Well, dear Cliff House. This is Labor Day. A day we rest to celebrate all the non-resting from before. On the lawn, the last oysters are being shucked. A band plays near the bluff’s edge. By midnight, the grounds will be littered with toppled-over champagne glasses and discarded oyster forks. That’s how you’ll know the party is over.

Changes come tomorrow, just like FDR said. All I can hope is that they don’t come at us too fast. Is it too much to ask that we get to experience the sand of summer just a teensy bit more? Winter can be so damned long.

Until later (much, much later), I remain, yours truly,

Hattie R.