Every once in a while, summer comes on a soft and sultry night. Moths beat their wings against the screens fascinated by the light from the small lamp on the porch. A whispered sound of music floats across the lake and you can hear snatches of conversation coming from the kitchen. The children have fallen asleep after a long day of play. It’s only a moment, but, for me, it’s quintessentially summer.
It wasn’t the often-wanna-be or “never was” season that iced tea commercials bring to mind. It was the essence of what we hope summer will be and, at least for me, usually never is. It was, strangely enough, a lot like Christmas. There is the mythological Christmas that is full of family, joyous celebration, feasting and gift giving, wrapped up in the weeks and weeks of preparation. Then there is the real holiday. You can fill in the blanks. It’s not that Christmas is lacking in its own unique joy, it’s just that it is far, often very far, from the fantasy which we have in our minds.
And summer? Living where we do, with months of dreary, cold, unrelenting cold weather, gray days and long nights, summer and its pleasures are a dream, another illusion. The days lengthen, the weather warms, the earth gives life again and we are on the march to summer and high expectations. The summer that we long for is an adult version of that long, lazy series of endless days that we conjure from our childhood. There’s a hushed song of summer that sings with the sounds of spring peepers, crickets, katydids and squirrels high in the oak trees. There are remembrances of hours fishing for blue gills, building small castles in sandboxes and bigger forts in the woods and we are seduced into that seasonal magic once again.
These less-than-endless adult summer days are artfully reorganized into the planning and execution of what we hope will replicate the affective feel of childhood’s ease.
Then there is reality. Add in rainy days, too-hot days and too-hot nights, bugs, poison ivy, more bugs, rashes, bored children and short tempers as we try to cram in as much summer fun as possible. More bugs – tiny, annoying insects that attack as you fill planter boxes or weed the gardens, wasps that hide in the ground, that boldly steal food from your plates, vying with the flies that appear out of nowhere when you bring food outside. You are now planning and cooking three meals for people who don’t eat bread, drink milk, consume meat or vegetables that have been blighted by artificial anything. Peanut allergies are everywhere. When we were children p b & J sandwiches, potato salad, corn and not dogs were gourmet fare. Today- who knows?
Adult summer has its own playlist, songs of summer that change the rhythm of our days. One begins with “I wonder if it’s time to have the septic pumped out?” Another repeats the refrain, “Where is my swim suit?” with a chorus of “no you can’t go out in the boat alone.” I can hear the youthful outraged chorus of “ You use paper plates?” and just try to find a song that will make the interminable washing up of the non-paper version of plates and such less burdensome. How often do we hear that old favorite, “Do you have a first aid kit?” or the less frightening, “I have a sliver.” Then, of course, we have the old favorite, “He’s looking at me.”
That sweet summer moment passes, daily life returns, but there is always the savoring of special moments which remind you that, like Christmas, summer is about the journey. For both we can conjure gifts for ourselves preparing to savor the small moments rather than the big events. We still clean out the cottage, wash the deck chairs, have the septic tank pumped, plant the annuals, restock the fridge, make the beds, vacuum, dust and prepare, welcome family and friends, knowing, again, that it’s the journey. It’s the journey. Like Christmas, summer is ours to create.
