How can anything really be Summer 2017? In what kind of science fiction, futuristic, Tomorrowland time have we arrived? Of course, all things being relative, our children bat not an eye. “2017? Big deal. Just wait until Summer 2060. Now that will be something!” I can only hope it will be.
Back when the world was small, summers seemed to go on and on. At first there was the heady freedom of, “school’s out for summer” and the novelty of sleeping in late, downing a Pop Tart or Frosted Flakes leisurely at 11 a.m. instead of rushed at 7:15 a.m. What heaven! However, even as early as mid-July, after the excitement of the Fourth, back when fireworks were legal, we would begin to encounter a gnawing boredom, a certain ennui, a general malaise. It was suffered close to the ground as if we were too weary to even stand or walk. The endless day would find a group of us from the neighborhood, both boys and girls, lying around on the grass of a front yard under the shifting shade of a tree, lazy and listless in the afternoon smog, continuously asking each other, as if stuck in a loop,
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
“Maybe we should go over to Quigley’s and buy some candy?”
“Nah, too far to walk.”
“Yeah, too far, and it’s too hot.”
“Wanna go swimming?”
“No, tired of swimming.”
“We could go to the pet shop again.”
“Nah. Those fish are boring.”
“I like the fish.”
“You would.”
“Well, what do you wanna do?”
“I don’t know!”
Then God takes a hand. You’re not sure if you really hear it at first. It’s distant, intermittent, fading in and out like a dream. Then, finally, it’s unmistakable. Eyes light up, hearts beat faster. There’s no time to lose. As one, we rise and run scurrying to various houses, scooping up coins from change dishes, pillaging mothers’ purses, raiding little brother’s bank. Then, running back outside and with an enthusiasm known only to the young, we race, joined by other kids following the tinkling tune as if led by the Pied Piper himself until we arrive at our Mecca: The Ice Cream truck.
And there, in the taste of a lime popsicle, Drum Stick, or rainbow sherbet Push-Up, is summer. We are rejuvenated, filled with impossible schemes, of solving mysteries, sneaking out at night and digging for treasure, or reaping some kind of reward that might enable us to go to Disneyland. We run off to swim, laughing and hatching adventures, as the Ice Cream Man, who’s really an angel, smiles after us, then drives away, tinkling music fading softly in the summer air.
One summer we attended a sleep-away camp for a whole week. We’d pack up our new swimming suits and Keds, crop tops and peddle pushers and debate whether or not to take along a beloved stuffed animal. God forbid some cruel, heartless girl with beautiful hair and glossed lips might make fun of us for such childish indulgence. Yet, I took Cutie Bell, my doll, packing her well away in my suitcase hidden beneath a bathrobe, never really taking her out, but consoled just knowing she was there.
Much of the week was spent trying to avoid Gert, the woman who ran the camp and scared the hell out of us. She sported a man’s haircut and dressed in western costume complete with boots and was accompanied by two large dogs on leashes. Gert once yelled at a group of us to, “get off the grass and walk on the path,” and we took off running, afraid she would let loose the dogs. The week passed both quickly and slowly with the usual camp activities, lanyard-making, hiking, archery, the Swim Meet and costume show. We rebelliously appeared just as ourselves under the banner of, Typical Campers, which we thought was brilliant. Sadly, no awards were forthcoming.
The thing that surprised me most about being away for a week was that my parents had survived without me; eating, sleeping, shopping, going to work, cleaning the pool, feeding kitty, little brother still skateboarding, an August moon now grown large. Yes, of course, I later found the letters from camp I had written in a young and hopeful print, all saved along with a blue ribbon for swimming: Dear Mommy and Daddy, Today I road a horse named, Toby. He was brown and white. It was hot and the horse was slow. We won some tickets for ice cream! I will see you in 3 days. Tell Douglas he is very stupid. Love, Your daughter, The Camper.
Other summers were family vacations, Sun In hair lightener, friends and boys. Now, somehow it is Summer 2017 and there is gray in my hair and Cutie Bell came to life in the person of my own dear daughter, now about to go off to college.
This summer seems a rocky start, with fires, road closures, shootings, impossibly inappropriate tweets from high places, continued global warming, the rattling of North Korea, and wars still fought in the name of God, who weeps from high. So maybe, yes, Summer 2060 might be the place to be, but, alas, I won’t be here to see it. So I send along some words, from a time still early in the century written on the Fourth of July, of all days.
Dear Citizens of Summer 2060,
I hope the world has made it that far and you’re hangin’ in there. Are there flying cars yet? Do you all have chips embedded in you that allow a built-in spell-check, (I would have liked that). Have you paid off your college loans? I wish to apologize for my generation because we were going to change the world and make it a better place, a place of making love not war. It didn’t quite work out that way but it was a good idea. Please keep it alive. Being the Fourth of July, I should mention that America was also a great idea. But I won’t preach except to say be kind and brave.
Across these years I wish you ice cream and rock and roll, a shooting star, the promise in a summer sunset, a wave to ride and Peace on Earth.
Have a groovy summer
