I’ve
always felt that every person should be fortunate enough to experience that “summer
of a lifetime.” To be so lucky as to get those three months or so when
everything comes together in perfect harmony. When the world stops moving and
time stands still. When senses are heightened and most aware. When every moment
seems monumental and meaningful and defining. When every day and night plays
out better than the ones before. When living into the early morning hours exposes
all possibilities and actually delivers them. When the nighttime sounds popping
and hissing and exploding outside a bedroom window no longer are scary but
instead are entirely exhilarating and enticing. When all boundaries and
barriers that previously contained and held back youth fade away and cease to exist.
When nothing or no one stands in the way of exploration and passion and turmoil
and debauchery and insight. When all conversations seem to reveal truth. When
you dare and brave and live on the edge like never before and let fate
determine the outcome, whatever that may be. When tolerance has never been greater,
inhibitions never fewer, and limitations a distant memory. When energy is in
full supply, sleep is in no way a factor, and rules and regulations are just
cracks in the sidewalk to step over.
I
wonder how many people ever receive such a gift. I wonder how many people ever
live through such a period of time. I also wonder about the events that define these
periods can vary and how these periods themselves can hold such different meanings
for people.
The
summer of my life was 1983, the year I turned 16 and the walls came down fast
and hard. Just like a movie, my summer began like a dream, fittingly kick-started
at the party following the last day of school. It was my first such party. It
was in the country. And it didn’t disappoint. Just like a lot of movies, that
party and my summer were fueled on the power and influence and excitement of
alcohol, whose influence on me had yet to be soiled or spoiled or filtered or
dirtied by alcohol’s dark side. The sips from the bottle poured bravery down my
throat, letting me do things I didn’t know were possible, both in actions and
in words. The right level of alcohol consumption let me speak in ways I couldn’t
prior and helped me engage with people I’d always wanted to but had been too
shy or insecure to before. Namely girls.
The
summer of 1983 was the summer I fell really hard for a girl the first time. Head-over-heels
hard. Into-the-mystic hard. Puppy-dog hard. Can’t-wait-to-see-you-again hard.
You-have-the-most-beautiful-eyes hard. Have-we’ve-really-been-talking-on-the-phone-three-hours
hard. Nothing about falling so deep and so fast was disappointing, either. Even
when she broke my heart. Even after she shattered the love and lust and craving
and yearning and the butterflies and self-confidence to pieces. All that badness
was still intoxicating. If anything, being broken so thoroughly only confirmed to
me I was never more alive. It confirmed all the possibilities that were within
reach. It confirmed there was indeed magic in the air, and if willing and able
to grab ahold, the magic could sweep me away and take me places I never wanted
to return from. The magic was blinding.
The
summer of 1983 was the summer I drank the hardest. Ran the fastest. Strayed the
farthest away. The summer I demolished all caution and rode the snake wherever
that bad boy wanted to take me. And we traveled to some incredible places. The
summer I literally spilled out of car doors, beer cans falling in unison
closely behind. The summer I sidestepped the police down backroads with
12-packs in the back. The summer I drank on seemingly every country road. Fell
asleep in the park walking home way too late at night and way too out of step. The
summer I drank before carnivals and rodeos, at beaches and river banks, in
garages and basements, in cars and pickups, in backyards and on doorsteps. The summer
I drank for no reason and every reason. It was the summer my friends carried
each other to their respective front steps, dumped each other in their
respective beds, and managed to wake up each morning unaffected and ready for
more. It was the summer we survived and lived to tell about it.
The
summer of 1983 was the summer my parents were forced to accept that I was no
longer a boy. The summer I threw that fact in their faces, selfishly and (now)
regrettably. It was the summer I believed my friends were more important than
the confines of home. It was the summer I snuck out at night and didn’t feel
guilty afterward. The summer I showed up late and had no regrets upon being
caught. It was the summer that “curfew” took on a new meaning and became
something to ignore. The summer I started to want more. Need more. Expect more.
It was the summer I realized there was more waiting for me out in the great
beyond. The summer I spent less time at home and more time away. Independence.
Speed. Recklessness. Aggression. Departure.
The
summer of 1983 was the summer I grew comfortable being alone. With my thoughts.
With my ideas. With my future. It was the summer I started to look ahead and
look for ways “to get out.” It was the type of summer I expect not enough kids
get to live. The type of summer that should be mandatory. It was the type of
summer that deserves to be remembered. Revered. Returned to. Re-examined.
Has it
really been 30 years? Is it possible? How is it I still so vividly recall the
details? How is it I still hear the basketball ricocheting off the neighborhood
houses like gunshots ripping the air after midnight? Why can I still hear the
gruff tones of my old man’s voice so intensely shouting from his bedroom
window, “stop pounding the damn ball!”? Why can I still sense the buzz of the carnival
coming to life downtown and still marvel in the lights and still smell the popcorn
and taste the snow cones and still embrace the possibilities like they’re right
under my nose? Why can I still feel the smoothness of her tan fingers slipping
in between mine? Still feel the hardness of the faded wood lawn chairs we sat
on talking way past the last glimpse of daylight disappeared? Why can I hear
the songs of The Police escaping the car radio and circling my head? Every
Breath You Take. King Of Pain. Synchronicity. Why can I still taste and feel
the dirt on kicked up from car tires tearing down the country roads in my mouth?
Why can I still feel the beads of sweat treading down my forehead standing in
that decaying barn, throwing up hay bails, swatting away wasps, wondering why I
didn’t become a lifeguard? Why can I still feel the murky-warm lake water
climbing up past my knees on those late-night swims? Still feel the stinging that
water put on my face, arms, legs, and ass falling hard time after time on those
damn water skis? Why do I still feel nervous, as if I’m still waiting anxiously
in that car outside The Crow’s Nest wondering if she really could score the
beer with that impossibly fake license like she said she could? Why can I still
remember all the lyrics to those songs we sang riding bikes up and down those lonely
streets, bored but somehow entertained? Why do I still feel the loneliness of you
heading off to college without saying goodbye because you said it was too hard?
Why do I still not believe your reasoning? Why can I still taste those
beautifully red tomatoes from my dad’s garden? Why do I still expect my cat Tom
to climb on my lap sitting underneath the stars, looking for a friend with a
willing petting hand?
30
years on. Why is the summer still as important? Still as meaningful? Still the
summer of my life?
I
sincerely hope everyone is as fortunate.
