(HOST) For commentator Anne Averyt, the upcoming All-Star Break is about more than just baseball.
(AVERYT) Baseball’s All-Star break sneaks up on me every year.
I know Yogi Berra would probably say, "It happens when it happens…." The problem is, that mid-July baseball date is, for me, the official mid-point of summer in Vermont. And, as usual, I haven’t had my fill.
I haven’t been to the Burlington waterfront… enough. I haven’t walked wooded paths enough or waded enough into the ripples of surf at Sand Bar State Park. I haven’t gone up to St. J. to see the stars or driven down Route 22A through the lush valley farm land.
What I haven’t done is far more than what I have done – and, oh yes, the All-Star break is just around the corner. I can feel the crisp, cold breath of autumn on my neck – and I don’t want it to come … yet. I still have a lot of Vermont summer living to do.
Vermont is this amazing three-season tableau. The white comforter of winter settles down the mountains and tucks in the towns. The crimson and fire of fall ignite the roadsides in an explosion of color. And where else is there a more radiant vision of summer than Vermont gussied up in her gown of emerald green?
I tell my siblings, remind my far away sons, "Come. Visit. Indulge." But too often I also take for granted the unique treasure that is Vermont. I look beyond for more – the lights of Broadway, the museums of Washington, the cafes of Montreal.
Yet, it is here in our backyard, in my backyard, in my Vermont that I truly find my soul’s nourishment. If I look up to the mountains or across the expanse of open lake, if I just look around – I know that here in Vermont is the green, green grass of my home.
Even though the calendar is dwindling down the days of summer, and the All-Stars are thinking about the home stretch swing through August’s end, there’s a lot of Vermont summer left to savor.
The banquet is still spread before me. In the weeks to come, I will swirl Vermont on my tongue and take a deep drink of reverie. On mild summer evenings, I will nudge myself down to the waterfront. On weekends, I will tear up my list of home projects and head out in search of dusty roads, local vineyards and meandering streams.
I will remind myself that, in this fleeting moment we call summer in Vermont, the wild berries are ripe and waiting. I will rejoice in the land, along with an Irish poet-priest – Gerard Manley Hopkins – who wrote more than a century ago about his native place. I will give thanks, as he did, for dappled things, for skies of couple-colour, brinded cows, trout that swim, and finches’ wings…. I will say with him about my Vermont home, "Glory be."