The tempo of summer living is so incredibly different than the other seasons around here. It's not just the daylight, which stretches impossibly from one end of the day to the other. But that's not the biggest shift between the seasons. It's really the mornings. In the fall, winter and spring, we are up and out the door in record time, rushing to get to school on time. There is little time to ease into the day. But not in the summer. In the summer, morning stretches on and on.

This spring, Mike bestowed upon me the virtue of the porch couch. Sitting on his, gazing at the wonder of Kachemak Bay, I decided that any latent stigma that might be attached to having a couch on your porch was foolish. I wanted one. And, low and behold, he had extras. What a guy.

So now my mornings involve easily an hour on the couch, sipping coffee and listening to the bird calls, both native and those of my ever-growing flock of poultry. This heavy dose of nature to start my day has really defined my summer. Cuddling the children while watching the squirrels skitter nervously up and down the spruce trees is soul food. I can remember many years thinking that the number of times I actually sat on my deck and enjoyed the space were so limited. This year, it seems to have reversed. If last year was the year of reconnecting with Alaska, this summer is all about reconnecting with my own piece of land. That's a great thing.

Last night, as he was climbing into bed after another full night with a cluster of friends, Liam asked me, "Mom, are we really farmers?" "Yup, I guess so," I responded. "Well, if we are really farmers, there are just a few things missing." "Oh?" "Yes, I think we need a goat, or two or three." Oh, dear. What a slippery slope.