Summer

My blissfully brown husband looked down at my feet this evening, laughed hysterically, and said "white people are funny."

You see, I am currently enduring my punishment for jumping straight into a whole day in the sun after six months indoors with no buildup period. Despite my best precautions--I applied a liberal dose of sunscreen *twice*--I came back from our first canoe trip of the year looking like a deformed zebra. (My husband, on the other hand, is completely fine.) Tip: always remember to apply sunscreen to the tops of your feet when wearing Tevas.

Not that I'm complaining about my genetic inferiority (well, maybe just a little)--the cause of my troubles was overwhelmingly worth it. We whiled away a wonderfully peaceful summer's day (yup, spring flitted in and out of our consciousness in about two weeks' time) canoeing down the Shenandoah River, at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. No blackberry service, no pollution, no noise, and very few other people--just a boy and a girl in a little canoe, with the sun shining all around. (Sing it, Camp Dakani fans.) Canoeing, we have discovered, is our "thing"--the perfect activity that allows us to work together as a team, get a great workout, enjoy each others' company, and revel in all of God's glory. A great day.

I do have one question for you Virginians out there, though: what is with all the Confederate flags? We saw at least four as we floated down the river, all displayed proudly on flagpoles staked at campsites. I mean seriously--of all the things to take on a camping trip, why did so many of these people pick a tent, a cooler full of beer, a folding chair, and a Confederate flag? Strange.