Summertime is Coultontime

Summertime is Coultontime: and in Coultontime, summertime means Colchester, Connecticut, the Coulton homeland: long evenings out on the asphalt surrounding Hamburger Harry’s, best known for it’s famous “hamburgers…” dazed, sunblind afternoons wandering the wide aisles of the super stop n shop, breathing in the AC, poolside lounging at the old Coulton homestead surrounded by beer and good fellowship and small dogs with dental problems, and when the global warming kicks in, it means wandering back in to the cool house to the deathless gaze of a thousand menacing dolls. (See “Creepy Doll” within).

By the time this summer rolled around, a lot had changed for Coulton since our first meeting in that Yale common room 1000 years ago (please see “Falltime is Coultontime” immediately), but in many ways we have returned to that room: back to those careless days, that perpetual summer of youth. By this summer of 2006, we had both left our jobs and are now gainfully unemployed—I as a writer a