Summer has many wonderful
things to recommend it: long hours of daylight; fruits and vegetables
fresh from the garden or a Farmers' Market; swimming outdoors
in ocean, lake or pool; the distinct lack of formality in dress;
outdoor sports like tennis and golf; comfort in one's loose-fitting
clothes; and a chance, perhaps, to enjoy a bit of vacation at
home or away.
For children, of course,
there is that delicious anticipation of the last day of school,
and the thrilling first moments after the final bell when the
whole beautiful summer spreads itself before you in your imagination,
not one minute of the precious time yet squandered. For teachers,
too, it's a buoyant moment, followed shortly by the exquisite
treat of going to bed and NOT setting the alarm clock.
Growing up in northern
California, I loved to spend idle summer hours sitting up in the
top of my special live oak tree, or playing wild games of Monopoly
or Canasta with my best friend from next door. Once a week my
mother would take us to the library and we'd stock up on books,
three or four at a time. I can still recall the scent of that
library, and see in my mind's eye the wooden card catalogue and
metal shelving in the children's section. The name and face of
the librarian are long gone from memory, but she was a beloved
resource who kept tabs on everyone's special interests and level
of proficiency, and could suggest books that were an appropriate
next step.
On hot days, my brother
and I could bike down one hill and up another to a little green
puddle partly ringed with a stone wall and a gate with a curved
sign above it that said: "Emerald Lake Country Club." There was
no clubhouse; no tennis court; no amenity beyond a couple of outdoor
restrooms and a trucked-in sandy beach. The lake had a raft in
the middle, and a tall swing next to the high diving platform
on the edge. On the Fourth of July, there were swimming races
for children. I won mine a couple of times when Kay Belden moved
up to the older age group, but in the years that we were in the
same group, there was no touching her. I learned to dive by watching
Kay, and every now and again she'd deign to notice my efforts,
and offer advice, which thrilled me.
My brother used to
drive the lifeguard (and my mother) mad by slipping beneath the
surface and disappearing for a long time. He was a natural sinker,
and could hold his breath for what seemed like forever. The water
was so green that you couldn't see three feet beneath the surface,
so you never knew where he'd come up next. Often he shot out of
the water beneath the inner tube on which I was floating, turning
me over. Sometimes he grabbed me by the feet and yanked me down.
Try as I might to swim underwater, I always bobbed back up, so
he could easily escape my outraged efforts for revenge. I suppose
that there's an advantage to being naturally buoyant (it'd be
hard to drown me), but at the time it seemed like the bane of
my life.
In California, the
grass-covered hills turn golden in the summer. It doesn't rain
from May to September, so the tall grass cures in the sun. That
was when we got out the cardboard cartons we'd saved all winter,
flattened them, and rode them down the hill in the same way that
children in the East use sleds in the snow. It could be a hard
and bumpy ride, but the dry grass was slick and the slopes were
steep, and we could gather enough speed to shoot the small, dry
creek at the bottom of the hill. (Well, at least my brother and
the other big boys did).
Once or perhaps twice
a summer, we'd have a really hot spell, as high as 90°. There
would be headlines in the newspaper about little old ladies collapsing
from the heat. But usually the "marine layer," as the weathermen
now refer to fog, would roll in over the coastal mountains that
were known simply as Skyline, pouring over the slopes like a great
ocean comber, making our nights chilly enough to sit by the fire,
even in summer. It was nature's own air conditioner, at least
for those of us who lived near enough to the ocean.
On rare nights when
the fog didn't come in, my brother and I would sometimes lie on
our backs in the tall grass and swat mosquitoes (and get bitten
by them) as we watched the brilliant stars wheel overhead. Smog
hadn't yet come to the Bay Area, and the dry air was very clear.
The first poem I ever wrote, when I was about 8, ended with: "...and
stars at night, a million stars, hung low."
The first time I ventured
east of the Mississippi, I was five years old. The War had begun,
and my parents knew that soon travel would be impossible. As soon
as school let out for the summer, my mother, brother and I boarded
the train at the Oakland Moll and headed back to New York State
to visit Great Aunt Julia. She was then 88 years old, and my mother,
who was her closest relative, was anxious to see her one last
time.
Aunt Julia lived with
a companion in a small town in upstate New York. She had a big
old house with nooks and crannies to delight children, including
a dark back stairway just made for haunting. There was a stuffed
loon on the dresser in my brother's bedroom, and in mine, a small
white china cat holding a purple and gold velvet ball that was
a pincushion. Best of all there was a barn out back (empty, alas),
and a lawn and big trees where we could play tag. I remember the
first evening at dusk when we sat out on the porch, still a bit
in awe of our aunt, and on our best behavior. Suddenly there was
a small gleam of light in the air right by my foot. I wasn't sure
I had really seen it, but shortly there was another, a little
farther away.
"What is it?"
I breathed, not the least afraid because it seemed somehow friendly,
a bit like the stars I loved.
"Ginger Blue!" said
Aunt Julia. "Has the child never seen a firefly?" (I think I was
almost as entranced by that "Ginger Blue!" - which turned out
to be Aunt Julia's favorite exclamation - as I was by the fireflies).
Bottles were quickly
provided so that my brother and I could catch fireflies to our
hearts' content, a task I adored because the fool things were
so easy to capture, and didn't sting or bite like our California
bugs.
The next leg of our
trip took us to New York City, where it was hot and humid, and
then to New Jersey to stay with cousins who had children about
our ages. The afternoon we arrived, there was a good rain, and
because the grownups hadn't heard any thunder, we were allowed
to put on our bathing suits and go out to play in it. I can still
remember the wonder of that: it was lots better than playing in
our sprinkler on a hot day at home. In California, the rains didn't
come until the weather had turned cold, and you'd no more go out
in your bathing suit in rain than you would in snow.
The rest of the trip
took us to our Mother's old college, where we saw snapping turtles
in the lake, and then on to Chicago, and to Pentwater, Michigan,
where we visited Mother's former roommate in her wonderful house
by the lake. It seemed strange to be playing in the sand dunes
and then swimming in fresh, not salty water, but the winds off
the lake were cool and welcome.
That trip also provided
me with my first glimpse of lightning, as we came across the Great
Plains. From my upper berth, I could look out the little window
and see huge bolts of lightning on the horizon, although because
of the distance, or possibly the noise of the train, I never heard
the thunder. I was quite afraid of the lightning. It seemed unpredictable,
and looked violent even though it was beautiful.
Now that I have lived
more than half my life in the East, I've gotten over being afraid
when I hear the first rumbles of thunder, although I still don't
enjoy it when there are strikes so near that you can hear the
fizz-snap simultaneously with the bang. I have never stopped loving
fireflies. On evenings after a rain, or when the grass has been
freshly cut, we can count on a large number of winking lights,
and the woods in the hollow behind our house are often like a
fairyland of tiny stars moving lazily about among the trees.
One of the things I
most appreciate about the East in summer is that despite horrible
daytime heat, and humidity so thick you'd swear you could squeeze
a handful of air and watch it drip, the evenings can be pure magic.
With no coastal fog to chill us, we can sit out on the deck at
night without even a sweater and enjoy watching those fireflies,
or perhaps the flying squirrels that come to our bird feeder.
And, if we're lucky,
it will rain often enough so that we're not eternally tied to
the garden hose, although during a dark and rainy spell like the
one we've had this past week, we find ourselves grumbling that
it's good weather to grow mushrooms and not much else.
But after all, summer
is summer, no matter where you live, and it needs nothing else
to recommend it. In any guise, it's a time for living lightly
and slowing down to enjoy whatever nature brings you. If you do
it right, when Labor Day rolls around you'll have begun to be
bored with summer, and you'll be ready for Fall's up-gearing once
again.
In the meantime, let
insouciance reign.
