Fireflies And Summer Rain ...Stars at Night, a Million Stars, Hung Low

Fireflies And Summer Rain ... Stars at Night, a Million Stars, Hung Low

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by Julia Sneden

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.

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Fireflies And Summer Rain ... Stars at Night, a Million Stars, Hung Low

by Julia Sneden

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