For most of the year the red house halfway down DH’s Hill (many call it Menemsha hill, but if Eric Cottle were still here he would reprimand the misnomer) sits quiet and dark.

Mid-July. It’s the heart of summer. It pulsates with a distinct rhythm. The air, thick with warmth and humidity, carries the scent of salt air, fresh cut hay and sizzling barbecues.

The fireworks may be over, but early morning swims, satisfying sunsets and the late-night blinking of fireflies among the trees continue and will for the foreseeable future.

I could have easily leaked some exciting news in my last column, but thought I’d give it a week to make its way around town naturally. The word has spread to many so now it is time for me to share with those who have yet to hear.

Memories of 1944 often involve a mix of fear, hope and resilience. It was a pivotal year in World War II, marked by significant Allied advances and the beginning of the end for Nazi Germany.

Like Maria Montessori said, “Imagination knows no boundaries; let it soar and inspire.”