“I know how to ride a bike, dad! You just don’t think!”

Good advice. Thinking is overrated sometimes.

She rode a mile with us on Sunday against a strong headwind. One of those strong headwinds that manage to be a headwind both coming and going. She was careful to stay on the side of the path away from the creek, wise, given her father’s tendency to cycle down the bank and into the water.

And fall is coming. Chucked the hanging baskets, getting dry. Washed the glass front on the woodstove; now waiting, kindling and matches in hand, for the first crisp evening.

A guy was telling me about his trip to Sweden. Now I want to go to Sweden, now that I know it’s not so expensive, unless you drink alcohol there, and the long days and summer light is nice, and that they are nice to children. Only my children want to go somewhere hot.

You want to know what Greece means to me, what I think of when I hear “Greece”? Bottles of ouzo I purchase and never finish because I don’t like ouzo but always forget, and plastic shopping bags cutting into my hands as I lug flat mineral water, watermelons, white bread, instant soup, retsina, nectarines, jam and yogurt from the shop in town up some hill past tavernas full of lobster-red British tourists to a nice little bungalow.

And skin cancer.

Okay, and beaches and sand castles and kids having lots of fun. And cocktails at sunset with my wife.

And mosquitos and cocky rats that jump this high.