I’m thinking about what makes an ideal summer house, the kind that fosters subliminal memories for years later.
Part of it has to do with the weather, and the light. Today is picture-perfect, not too warm, sunny, a light breeze. If this were 19th century Provence, one would not be surprised to see an Impressionist perched on a wooden chair in a lavender field or a Mediterranean beach.
With all the “McMansions” being built on the Cape, I wonder if the tradition of the summer house such as we knew it will disappear.
This would include old linoleum, mismatched glasses, an oilcloth table cover, a screened-in porch, and old-fashioned percolator, the kind that you’d put on the stove top.
There’d maybe be an outdoor shower, or at least a basin to wash the sand off your feet. There’d be ancient beach towels, untended flower boxes and other endearing signs of neglect, like an unpainted fence or porch.
Amenities might include an old radio with limited reception, a gas stove, an ancient refrigerator and maybe a space heater.
Finally, every proper summer house needs to be within walking distance of water, with a beach suitable for combing, and within a short drive to an ice cream parlor with a walk-up window.