My Guide to the Perfect Early Summer Saturday
Dear Faithful Companion,
Some days begin not with alarms and the race out the door to the gym, but with light—soft, deliberate, and reassuringly unhurried. The sun had only begun to stretch its golden fingers across the bedroom curtains when I stirred—earlier than most, perhaps, but later than Jesse, whose rhythm always seems tuned to the garden itself. I met him out on the back patio, the quiet of the morning broken only by the hum of the kettle and the rustle of leaves.
Coffee was brewed in the calm of the kitchen, and soon we sat together to break our fast in the way only a Saturday permits. Lately, I’ve come to appreciate the balance of egg whites and avocado—a nod to discipline—but I still find a familiar joy in the tradition of bacon and eggs. Jesse, our resident culinary officer, prepares it all with the confidence of a man who understands the alchemy of simple ingredients and good timing.
After breakfast, we parted ways for our respective pursuits—he to the garden to tend to the leaves of the trees, watering and cultivating the backyard into the oasis we once enjoyed at our former residence. I to the gym, keeping my appointment with the weights and silence. It remains one of the few places where movement and stillness somehow coexist.
Late morning drifted into one of the day’s great pleasures: the Georgetown Farmers Market. I very much enjoy our weekly visit. There's a nostalgic sense of community in that small stretch of street—the way familiar vendors greet us, the smell of baked goods, the hum of conversation. It’s a reminder that the finest things in life often come without packaging or pretense.
Afternoons lately offer a new custom: a quiet stop at the Legion. It’s still new to us, but there’s something charming in its simplicity—the hum of familiar stories being retold, the clink of a pint, and the unspoken bond of shared service. We don’t stay long, but we always leave fuller than when we came—and occasionally with a cut of meat won during the draw, which somehow tastes better knowing it was claimed in good company.
Errands, of course, remain part of the rhythm—Costco, groceries—and while not romantic, they are grounding. There’s a dignity in the practical. Somewhere between the produce and the parking lot, one remembers that adulthood is more often lived in these errands than in grand adventures.
By late afternoon, I carve out an hour of reflection. A notebook, a glass of water, and no agenda—just thoughts. I'm learning to see personal development not as an urgent sprint, but as a regular grooming of the self, like trimming one’s beard or polishing one’s boots. Left unattended, things grow wild.
Evening falls gently, like a gentleman removing his jacket. Dinner is usually light, conversation easy. When the sun dips below the trees and the temperature offers mercy, we find ourselves back on the deck, wine in hand. The firepit is lit, its quiet dance keeping pace with the rustle of leaves overhead. The crack of the firepit as dusk falls speaks volumes in the silence—more than most words could offer.
It was F. Scott Fitzgerald who once wrote, “And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees… I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” And truly, I see it now—how the season has a way of hitting ‘reset’ without ceremony. It renews things not with fanfare, but with stillness. A slower breakfast. A glass of Malbec by firelight. A gentle breeze that reminds you to breathe before the weeks race on.y into vivid clarity.
Verbum Ultimum
A perfect summer Saturday is not measured by itinerary, but by cadence. It is not built with tasks, but with choices—gentle ones. There is dignity in the unhurried hour, refinement in the ritual of rest. Today held no battles, no declarations. But it was lived well.
And that, my friend, is sometimes the greater campaign.
Yours in the slow stride and sun-warmed silence
JCB
