I'm sitting in my living room with the windows open to the Hudson River. The cool, hazy morning is forgiving after days of steamy heat. Out in the water, halfway to the cliffs leading up to the Palisades, is a long red and black barge. They've been anchored for nearly a week, the boat swaying to block the river, then swinging around every time the tide changes direction. Today, they've been joined by a sturdy red tug, pushed up against their side and holding things steady.

Passing now is a long low barge, a giant flat canoe, being pushed by a bright blue tug. They move quickly upriver, hurrying through the narrow passage as if an anchored red barge is as inconvenient to a blue tug as getting past a harried mother with a cart full of screaming toddlers in the cereal aisle is to a hurried New Yorker. 

Summer days in the city can unfold with their own brand of magic, at times emerging from another century, other times standing up brightly and waving from the front of the nation, riding the crest of each brand-new second. Some days pull in the salt smell of the ocean or the hot spank of taxis passing. Others push you back with the oppressive heat of garbage bags on sidewalks and the tired sighs of people who can't leave town.

In pockets and corners, we flock to farmers markets and beaches, park lawns that stretch the length of city blocks and boardwalks that bake hot and disappear into mirages. Standing guard along the avenues, the museums are always soft and cool, waiting to harbor you in hushed hallways full of achievement and beauty.

Far from the rainy, rugged, berry-filled summers of my Pacific Northwest childhood, I focus on the barges and stare back through the centuries. I trade Washington State for images of General Washington escaping a burning city as he rows across the Hudson to Fort Lee, NJ. He would've passed just under my window, right about where the tug presses up against the barge saying, "Hold steady."(