The Summer Of A Lifetime

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.