I confess freely to having a tendency to sometimes be a horrible scold, targeting what I consider to be the troubles of this world, also putting forward tediously my proposed solutions to those problems, in the process reducing the number of my invitations out.

"Oh, he'll just rave on about the wars in the Congo. Where is the Congo, by the way? I, for one, couldn't care less. Is there some way we could just invite Libby?"

Following the example of Post-Gazette Executive Editor David M. Shribman, who on July 26 wrote a beautiful, bittersweet piece on summer idylls not completed, set in one of our thinly inhabited northern states, I will indulge myself this week by rambling on a bit about three high points of this summer so far for me. Two of them you can do yourself if you want to.

My enormously inventive wife organized a birthday dinner for me at an old mansion called Sandscrest, near Wheeling, where I was born. (If you must know, it was my 40th, the one that comes after your 79th.) The house was rich in Ohio Valley lore, having been owned at one time by the McCullough family. In 1777, Maj. Samuel McCullough escaped a band of cross Native Americans, waiting to discuss with him his having stolen their land, by jumping off a cliff on a horse. They got him later and did painful things to him that Highmark wouldn't have covered.

Anyway, she also found a string quartet in Wheeling who were playing when we approached the house for dinner on a beautiful summer evening. I did what I always do when faced with an emotional situation accompanied by music. I cried. (One of my favorite moments in 18th-century literature is when Voltaire's Candide is flogged in counterpoint to an anthem.) She also had two of my children, two of my grandsons and some of my oldest friends in the world there.

A second high point of the summer so far is the visit to Pittsburgh of my daughter-in-law and another grandchild, Naira, who is nearly three. "Naira" means "big eyes" in Aymara. Her mother is half Dutch and half Bolivian (Aymara) by background. The child speaks English, Spanish and Dutch already. (I called some people at the State Department, my old employer, which is notoriously short of anyone who speaks anything other than standard, 200-word-vocabulary, bureaucratic American, but they said she had to be dry at night before they would even consider hiring her.)

I know grandparents are notoriously gooey about the little ones, but Naira has big brown eyes, already has a flair for dressing to the nines, and knows how to work the house -- as in, her grandfather -- outrageously. Her grandmother had procured for her a pair of red, sequin-covered "Dorothy" shoes before she arrived. They wore blisters on her feet so they had to be replaced quickly by silver ones, almost as desirable as what she was able to find in the closet of her grandmother -- the Imelda Marcos of Downtown. And she can sing. I gave up my daily outside exercise ritual while she was here so I could be around when she came into our bedroom in the (early) morning.

A third summer high point is still around for anyone who wants to try it. It is the Fayette County Fair. I wouldn't have enjoyed it without Naira but it is possible that if you want to go you can round up a child to take with you for cover. It is less than an hour away. (Turnpike to New Stanton, south on 119 for about 20 miles, buy fresh corn, tomatoes and peaches going or coming back.)

It was a Fayette County-type experience, including a discernible lack of diversity. No African Americans, Asian Americans or Hispanics in sight, unless you count the Hispanics operating some of the rides. (One was delighted to be addressed in Spanish by my daughter-in-law and Naira.) We must have been there the day that visitors were being weighed for a contest since I have never seen as many overweight people in one place in my whole life, unless it was in a mall near Carlisle, Pa.

There were some great moments. The best was putting Naira into the baby animal petting zoo. (The Kachunga & the Alligator Show wasn't on until 4 p.m.) There were even llamas. The best were the piglets. (We had just watched "Charlotte's Web.") The attendants would provide a small baby bottle of formula with a nipple to give to the baby animals for $3. There were rides for little children. Several Naira liked. One made her scream piercingly.

My one complaint was that the food for sale was all execrable. Even the vegetables were deep-fried. Forget the Future Farmers of America healthy bit, although there was one booth run by the 4-H with homemade pizzas and baked goods. Some of the most interesting animals from my point of view were the many kinds of chickens, some with fluffy heads, some brightly colored, some crowing away happily, not knowing the fate that awaited them.

The other interesting animals were in a shed labeled "draft horses" -- are there bottled horses? They looked unhappy, but I heard the man who was responsible for feeding and watering them telling someone on a cell phone that the horses were being cared for but were unhappy because they were bored. No frolicking for this bunch: just stand there and try to look like Mine That Bird or Rachel Alexandra as the dopey people troop by.

Now, doing such things is clearly how one is supposed to pass the summer, as opposed to dealing with my usual list of complaints about the Middle East peace process logjam, the health-care lobbyist sharkfest, how to get out of Iraq as the slaughter continues, various parties rolling cherry bombs into the Iranian puddle of gasoline, and developing means to prevent America's bankers and financial geniuses from leaving us naked and half dead by the roadside again.

You can go to Sandscrest or its local equivalent near you. You can find a string quartet if you have an orchestra or a college with a music program nearby. You can't have Naira but I hope you have one of your own. Just about every county in the country has a county fair. It's summer.