The handwriting on the napkin wasn't Grandma's. It was Claudette's. A bartender at a place called Patsy's, which no longer exists, in a town I won't name. Claudette's definition of a good pour and a standard measuring cup are not the same instrument.

If you’ve never experienced June in the rural Netherlands, it has a specific, grounding magic. The air smells like fresh grass, the sky is an ever-shifting canvas of dramatic clouds, and the local wildlife (mostly overly opinionated sheep) provide a steady ambient soundtrack.

Not for gold, nor fleeting fame, But joy in simple things I claim. A charm of earth, both small and true End of summer, hope renewed.

Whispered soft on sunlit breeze, Butterfly kisses drift with ease, Summer's gentle, fleeting art, Touching hearts and leaving sparks In blooms they dance, so light and free, A fleeting tickle from me to thee, Warm days fade, but memory bliss, Linger with sweet summer's butterfly kiss