In three years of writing blogs I have failed to address the topic of ice cream. This egregious oversight must be corrected; after all, what is life without ice cream? Ice cream certainly is one of the ten most important contributors to a happy life.

Many years ago a friend made me a poster with a quotation from William Faulkner, “I can’t imagine no tragedy worse than being burnt out on strawberry ice cream.” I concur and always follow the rule, “No ice cream before 5:00PM.” (Vacation time excluded.)

My husband and I once had a spectacular 14 year run of nocturnal ice cream eating. Every Friday for all those years we drove to Leon’s, our local drive-in custard stand, at 11:30PM. Leon’s sensibly stayed open until 1:00AM. Below zero nights did not deter us.

When we approached the window, we didn’t have to order. The employees all knew us and just started scooping two big butter pecan cones and pouring two coffees. No one could possibly make butter pecan, laced with whole salty pecans, better than Leon’s. We would relax in our car, enjoy the cones, sip coffee and watch the lines of people.

Cars arriving with dogs were the best. Leon’s gave free kiddie cones to all dogs visible to the countermen. Cars would pull up with ecstatic, drooling dogs bouncing around the back seats and panting out the windows. These dogs knew what was coming.

For canines and people alike, the joys of ice cream are summed up by this fading sign painted on a barn near our house.

When our son was in high school, he was asked to fill in his religion on a school information form. He listed himself as “Druid”. We are definitely not a family of Druids; however, I admit that my thoughts do stray to ancient cultures as the summer solstice approaches.

Druids, Celts, Chinese, Incas and many others marked the summer solstice with great gusto. They erected monolithic rock structures, pyramids  or temples. Bonfires were lighted, ostensibly to add to the sun’s energy. Dancing was rife, and magic was thought to be afoot.

The summer solstice, also known as Midsummer or St. John’s Day, is the first day of summer with the longest day and shortest night of the year.

The Druids created Stonehenge, that immense rock garden whose main axis is aligned on the Midsummer sunrise. They viewed the day as “the wedding of Heaven and Earth”. We can thank the ancients for our present penchant for June weddings and the word “honeymoon”. The Midsummer moon was called a “Honey Moon” for the mead made from fermented honey that was consumed at solstice wedding bashes.

Steeped in semi-gloom or darkness for most of the year, Nordic people regarded Midsummer as a paramount event. To this day Midsummer poles decorated with flowers and greens are a common sight in Scandinavian countries. Sweden, especially, is awash with weddings and feasting. An old custom advises that young girls should collect seven flowers and put them under their pillows to dream about future bridegrooms.

In the Americas, the Inca people regarded themselves as “children of the sun”. It’s been over 500 years since the conquest, but Quechua-speaking people of Cuzco still gather to witness the arrival of the sun’s first rays on the solstice. A trapezoidal doorway set into huge stones directly frames the first light on summer solstice morning.

Americans rarely note the passing solstices and equinoxes. But it might be helpful to pause for a moment on June 21 (12:45AM, CDT) and consider what would happen if the sun, or our little blue marble, stopped acting in predictable ways. Then, break open the wine bottles and toast yet another on-schedule return of summer.

The babies arrived last week, and they’re adorable. Our neighborhood raccoon moms brought their offspring to The Tooley Cafe for a debut visit. We looked out one night to see an explosion of raccoons… four adults and eight little ones.

By the time the mothers bring their babies out into the world, the kids are well-rounded furballs with miniature masks and ringed tails. Only a curmudgeon could resist their charm.

Raccoons have only one litter a year. Mating time is from the last week in January to the middle of March. The gestation period is 63 to 65 days. Litters range from two to seven with an average birth weight of three ounces. The new-born’s eyes are closed for about 20 days. By the time we get to see the new family members they weight about three or four pounds.

Raccoons are gregarious, looking for food with their family group. The scene in our yard the other night beat anything “Animal Planet” could produce in terms of entertainment value. One raccoon was draped across the roof of the house-shaped bird feeder scooping out seeds. Another was hanging upside down on the tube feeder busily pulling out seeds through the cage. Some of the youngsters were swinging wildly in the tray feeder while they stuffed themselves. The table feeder on the ground was filled with kids sitting on it and chowing down. Everyone else was milling around on the ground bumping into each other as they scavenged for fallen seeds.

While this feeding frenzy was going on, I spotted a skunk walking through the woods behind the feeders. Although he is a frequent diner at the Cafe, he apparently chose not to enter the fray.

At this time of year we like to say “it’s raining raccoons.” At any loud noise or intrusion, all the baby coons scramble up into the pine trees. Since their climbing skills aren’t completely honed yet, we can hear them plopping and falling out of the trees when they begin the trip down.

My husband keeps the bird feeders well supplied with oiled sunflower seeds, the Cadillac of wildlife food. On the way home from the farm store last week, he had to have the convertible top down in his little two-seater car. The seed bags were stacked too high to fit any other way.

With the help of our neighbors we salvaged the boat benches last week. We now have some very comfortable seating down on the beach.

Hopefully, our blue vinyl couch won’t be re-salvaged or reclaimed by the waves any time soon. According to local rumors, the entire boat was abandoned and left to the mercy of the waves.

I’m a born beachcomber, always eager to see what daily treasures have washed up on the shore. My beach glass collection is getting fairly impressive… I can’t lift it anymore. But I’m also fascinated by larger detritus.

Last year an old fashioned phone receiver repeatedly washed in. We would pick it up, make a faux call, toss it back in and find it a week later in a different location. Recently, a large sign for I-43 appeared… perhaps in case directions from the beach to the freeway were needed.

Lone shoes, tennis balls, children’s sand-toys and fishing gear are the most common beach gifts. A handy, plastic-laminated “Guide to Sport Fish of the Great Lakes” was one of my favorite finds. Bet the fish are laughing.

There’s a coastal tradition of putting an old table (or constructing a table from salvaged wood) on the beach or cottage porch. Interesting flotsam and jetsam are displayed on the table. Our neighbor a mile down the beach has a great display. Currently, he is exhibiting 2 duck decoys, 1 life preserver, a 3-inch diameter piece of rope and numerous shoes… and the season is only beginning.