I have a necklace that reminds me of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I lived for two years and two months. The pendant is a piece of sea glass that I found one day among the rocks on the beach and saved in case one day I could have it made into a necklace. It sat inside the cupholder of my car for months, waiting.

It's pale sea green and roughly one inch long and three-quarters of an inch wide. It's an irregular rectangular shape and has a raised pattern that looks vaguely like the top of an anchor but is probably part of some writing. It's pretty, that's what made me save it.

One day I went downtown to see my friend Ford. When I found him, he was sitting talking to an old Deadhead who called himself Smoke. Smoke had a big bushy grey beard and a Buddha belly that was covered by a tie-dyed Grateful Dead t-shirt. He was sitting cross-legged on the pavement twisting silver wire with a pair of pliers around a pretty stone. Spread in front of him was a black velvet case showcasing his wares: every variety of coloured stone, polished smooth into beauty and wrapped around with silver wire.

I asked Smoke if he could wrap sea glass, and he said that he could. He said that he'd charge me $5. So I walked back to my car again, fetched the piece of glass, and took it to Smoke. He pulled out a length of silver wire, and a few minutes of careful twisting later, handed me my piece of sea glass, ingeniously but minimally wrapped, with a loop at the top for a chain. He then cut a length of black cord, threaded it on, tied a knot, and it was a necklace. Ten dollars, he said.

I hesitated, because he'd told me five. But I handed him ten, even though I was angry about it and complained to Ford later. However, I had to admit the result was pleasing. The thin silver wire cradles the ocean-smoothed glass, twisting to hold itself in place and spiraling up to the loop that holds the cord. When I wear it, it reminds me of the ocean. When I wear it, it reminds me of Portsmouth. When I wear it, it reminds me of countless sunsets viewed over the beautiful Piscataqua River from Peirce Island or Memorial Bridge. When I wear it, it reminds me of a time in my life that was bitter-sweet. When I wear it, it reminds me of a chunk of my past.

And it's beautiful.

I got onto the subway car. I sat down in the only available seat, next to a very sunburnt, red-skinned man in a wife-beater and jeans. I immediately semi-regretted it. He apparently hadn’t showered or applied deodorant recently.

He turned to me. “Pretty cool on the subway,” he said.

I agreed. “Cooler than outside.”

He laughed. “I might just ride the subway all day.”

“That’s one way to stay in the air conditioning.”

“Cheaper than air-conditioning your house.”

I agreed, and there was a pause.

“I’m going to the Writer’s Guild at U of T,” he told me.

“Sounds interesting. What happens there?”

“It’s for writers. People who write poetry and fiction. They get together and critique each others’ work. I pretty much have to go there every Friday. This week, Maggie McDonald is going to be speaking. In honour of her, I bought 5 liters of wine and 10 pounds of smoke—“ I thought he was going to say “smokes”, but he continued “d oysters, and five different kinds of black olives.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Yeah, and I got these!” He reached into his bag and pulled out a bag of tortilla chips. “They’re called ‘Scoopers’. You can see how you could put a smoked mussel into the center, like that…”

“Smoked mussels, I’ve never had those before,” I said.

“Smoked oysters, I mean,” he amended.

“I’ve never tried those either.”

My stop was announced, and I got up. “This is my stop, take care,” I said.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a pink-and-white box, which he thrust at me. “Here, take these,” he said. I looked at them. It was a box of smoked oysters.

“Why?” I protested, but he insisted. “Just take them!”

I got off the train and left the station, unable to stop laughing, with a pink-and-white box of smoked oysters in my hand. The city is such a strange place sometimes.

The smoked oysters were disgusting. But it makes a good story, and it was certainly a kind gesture.

One of the side effects (perks? downsides?) of working at a knitting company is constant exposure to yarns, knitting patterns, and knitting techniques. As a consequence, if you are me, your head is constantly filled and brimming over with new and countless ideas for knitting projects.

Normally, I have a "knitting season" which begins in about October and continues until I get sick of winter or run out of ideas, generally in about February. This year, I've begun knitting in May.

The first thing I started making was this scarf, the pattern for which was created by an incredibly talented knitting designer I work with:

Don't judge it. It's not finished.

Then, I found some yarn on sale and quickly whipped up this scarf:

Next, I ripped apart an old hat that didn't quite work and started knitting this hat:

It also isn't finished.

Who knows where this will end? I envision endless knitting projects stretching into my future. If you're my friend, watch out. You just may be stuck with some knitted object my addiction has compelled me to create.

Last night, Emerald's adopter came to sign the papers and pick her up. After a bit of protest, Emerald was lowered hind-end first into the cat carrier and shut behind the door, looking out apprehensively. She went out the door to her new life and her new home, and that was that.

I wasn't sure how I would feel. It's a bittersweet experience. On one hand, I've fulfilled my purpose: to care for her and prepare her for a permanent home. I know the woman who chose her will love her dearly and care for her well. I'm happy for that.

But the house seems empty now, and a little bit sad. I keep thinking about Emerald and remembering with a little shock that she's not here anymore. I keep expecting to be assaulted by her many meows and her pleading eyes, her padding paws following me everywhere I go and her prickling claws digging into my leg if I delay picking her up. I miss the soft furry warmth of her little body and the rapturous purring as I pick her up and settle her on my lap. I miss being met at the door, and I even rather miss the mess she made kicking litter out of her box every day.

Hopefully the new foster cat will arrive soon to fill that empty space. I wonder if it will get easier or harder with consecutive cats. We'll see. I guess if it gets too hard, I can always adopt my own.

Last week, I traveled to the States for my younger sister's wedding. The few days beforehand were a blur of wedding preparation and seeking to calm a nerve-rattled sister. Right up until the moment of truth, she seemed a little panicked. But when she walked down the aisle on our father's arm, she was absolutely beautiful. She and her groom beamed at each other, never losing one another's eyes.

I wasn't sure how I'd feel; I thought maybe I'd cry. But in reality, I couldn't stop smiling. They'd made it through five years and a lot of difficulty to this day, and it was clear they were deeply in love.

It was amazing to see the little sister I once viewed as nothing more than a nuisance, grown into a beautiful, poised, confident, intelligent and funny human being who is one of my best friends on earth. In a strange sort of a way, her getting married makes her seem somehow—not older than me per se, but simply entered into a very grown-up realm of life I have not experienced yet. I'm extremely happy for her and her husband.

In other changes, my first foster kitty, Emerald, has found a permanent home. Her adopter will be coming to pick her up in two days. Again, I'm not entirely certain how I'll feel. I'll miss her, I know. I've grown surprisingly attached to the furry, vocal little bundle of demanding love. I'm happy for her to find a good home, and already looking forward to my next foster cat, Camille. Apparently, Camille is an energetic handful who "needs to learn that play biting is not appropriate." Should be interesting...

I'm in upstate New York right now, preparing for my sister's wedding. I arrived yesterday, and most of the time since has been spent shopping, setting up the reception hall, and the thousand and one other various things involved with a wedding.

It's a bit hard to believe that she's getting married, the little girl I once viewed as nothing more than a nuisance, the sister six years younger who was only 13 when I left home. In the years since she's grown into a beautiful, intelligent, funny human being whom I enjoy more than almost anyone else and who is one of my best friends. She's known her fiance for five years, and it's a normal part of life I suppose, but it's still somehow slightly surprising.

I love summer. While others complain about the heat and the humidity, I revel in it like a lizard and wish it could be like this all year round. Someday, I (half) joke, God will call me to a tropical climate.

I don't love the sweat that soaks your clothes, nor the necessity of smearing sunscreen all over, but those are the only downfalls to an otherwise perfect season.

One of the things I love the most about summer is its fruit. I grew up in upstate New York, where the peculiar climate created by proximity to the Great Lakes nurtures abundant orchards. From spring to fall, farmer's markets and roadside stands run on the honour system provide baskets of strawberries, juicy peaches, blueberries, raspberries, cherries, nectarines, apples, and more. Fruit is never-ending, a cycle that begins with strawberries and ends with apples and runs through countless delights.

When I was growing up, we used to pick our fruit. For four years when I was small we lived in a house that backed onto an orchard, and the kindly older man who owned it used to let us come and take our share. We'd root hot, sweet, red strawberries from under their leaves, utilizing the "one for me, one for the basket" system. We'd pluck peaches and shiver at the prickly velvet that covered their skin. We'd take home baskets of apples that my mom turned into applesauce that, frozen, lasted all winter long.

Even after we moved, we lived in a home that was surrounded by orchards. Fruit was plentiful, varied, and cheap.

Now, I live in the city. I get my fruit from a small vegetable store a couple of blocks away manned by a little Chinese lady who robotically accepts payment and bags purchases never-endingly. Just about every form of edible plant, from fruit to vegetable, can be found there at some point during the year.

But the fruits that I grew up with still have the power to call back memory. A basket of soft, velvety, lush raspberries recalls the raspberry patch my dad planted at the back of our yard, a cool, shady place that we'd wade into, avoiding the thorns, to eat our fill. We had a dog called Molly who loved them as well: she'd run out there during raspberry season and ever-so-delicately lift her head and pluck them with her lips. My beloved cat Pudgie is buried there, underneath a white stone beside which I planted a tree.

The firm, rich dark flesh of sweet cherries takes me back to the two trees our friend owned, from which she invited us to pick. Sweet cherries and strawberries were always my favourites, though strawberries nowadays disappoint. Overbred to be huge, woody and under-sweet, they bear little resemblance to the intense experience of biting into a fresh berry in my childhood, "hot and sweet as the heart of June" as I once wrote.

I love summer while it lasts, and its fruits while they last. Hooray for both.