Tomorrow
is the last day of the school year for my kids. Despite being out of school for,
jeez, going on three decades, I still get that tingly little excited feeling in
my bones that only came from knowing another school year has ended.
The
summer has always been my time. My season. My wheelhouse. I hate winter and the
cold weather it brings. Although I think fall is pretty and the weather
comfortable, it generally depresses me knowing that winter is just around the
corner. I don’t particularly find joy in breaking out my warm clothes, and I
don’t take joy in watching plants die. Spring lifts me up, but only
temporarily. All it takes is one nice day in March to get me thoroughly excited,
only for a late snowfall a week later to smash my enthusiasm to bits. (Although
all bets were off this year in Nebraska, where the makes-no-sense-at-all
weather turned out 90-degree days consistently in April and barely enough snowfall
all winter long to make even one decent snowman.)
No,
I’m an unabashed summer fellow. I love hot weather. I love hot temperatures. I
love hot summer nights. I love hot summer mornings. I love camping and swimming
and gardening and the park and star gazing and playing in the sprinkler and a
good run or two down the Slip n’ Slide. Popsicles geek me to the extreme, and
curling up in an air conditioned basement under a thin blanket, watching a
late-night movie while the temps soar off the chart outside is nirvana. I love
my grill. I love my golf clubs. I love my guitar under a shade tree. I love my
lawn chairs, and I love the beads of perspiration and slight backache that
comes from a good weed-pulling session.
For
as long as I can remember, though, my summers have been defined and scheduled
and regimented and revolved around three key events, the first being my birthday
in early June. While I still in grade school, the few weeks spent between the last
day of school and my birthday were agonizingly brutal. They seemed to last
forever, as if the calendar was moving backward. The anticipation for MY DAY was
murder. Every year, I tried to refrain from thinking about my birthday, but as
each day successfully dropped off the calendar, my excitement only climbed skyward
another notch. My birthday was important to me. It was vital. It was one of two
times a year that I got new stuff. I got presents. I got to choose my meal. I
got to choose my cake. And I got to choose a friend to stay over all night. My
birthday was my reason for being.
After
my birthday came the Fourth of July, the next great summer event. Fireworks,
picnics, watermelon, family, horseshoes, badminton, softball games, fried chicken,
potato salad, and explosions deep into the night. The wonder. Time standing
still. With the July 5, however, came a certain bit of dejection for me, as Independence
Day represented the halfway point of the summer being over. Fewer days until
school started than less. Reality crashing in.
After
the Fourth, came the Stir-Up days, my town’s annual celebration to honor its
citizens and just have fun. Three days of carnival rides, baseball tournament
games, watermelon feeds, parades, more carnival rides, carnival games, and yes,
more carnival rides. Back in the day, the smart boys hit the carnival with
their friends and wisely spent their quarters on games that offered up useful
prizes. Pocket knife combs. Baseball helmets. Cool beer glasses. Rock posters.
Mirrors and more. The suckers like me, though, asked a girl to go with them for
the night. Less money to spend on yourself and more to spend on her. Less rides
to squeeze in for one person because you spent for rides for two. And the
pressure to win a prize you could proudly say you won for her was sizable, and
I didn’t do well under the pressure. Still, I remember fondly sitting in the
Octopus or Ferris Wheel all alone with certain girls over those junior and high
school years, feeling as if I was somehow older and very much on top of the
world, and feeling wonderment in the world. More than those memories of girls,
though, thinking about the carnival takes me back to being a little boy and
walking the few blocks from our house to the busy downtown streets with my
parents, nearly wetting my pants in the excitement of knowing I would soon be
on the rides that I could see peaking over the top of the bank and see through
the branches of the trees. Those neon colors beckoned me. I remember fondly
now, sitting awake late on Friday and Saturday nights as the clock stretched
past 10 and 11, sitting in my bed, hearing the voices and music and sounds from
the carnival drifting those a blocks from downtown to my dark room, wishing I
was still on one of those rides and wishing I was still playing one of those games.
That memory remains as vivid as it does precious to me.
After
the carnival, until I grew older and went on my way to college, the last event
of the summer was the rodeo, an annual event in my town and the representation
for me that school was only weeks away. Another summer was about to end.
Another season of swimming every day all day was coming to a close. Another
three months of bliss was soon to fade away on the calendar.
I
still think very much about those events now when summer starts creeping closer
and closer. I still love the anticipation that my birthday generates, as if I’m
still a little boy and I’ll soon be eating my mom’s cheesecake. I still get a
thrill out of the Fourth of July, but these days it comes mostly from watching the
wonder on my kids’ faces as the fireworks explode. I still venture back to the Stir-up
Days parade each summer, but now with a young daughter of my own. Each time, as
she’s gathering candy and pointing out the horses and fire trucks, I feel the
yearning to permanently reside in that small town or any other growing stronger
and stronger. The sense that I’m missing out on little events grows more
intense. Mostly, though, summer has always been about freedom for me, and I get
great satisfaction in still being able to experience even a sliver of the freedom
I felt so strongly during the summer days of decades ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment