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And unlike other seasons, summer needs those markers. Spring and fall are transitional, and winter features the turn of the year.
Summer is static; once the leaves come out it’s a green prison, warm and less changeable than the rest of the year. But it’s also messy, far too short for the experiences we want to cram into it. We become more permeable, open to going to new places, to being thrown off our games. It’s a season of romance, of weddings, of misunderstandings. Go read A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
As schoolchildren, we were given the wrong idea about summer. It seemed, on the last day of school, like a vast, shining expanse, an ocean of time with an impossibly distant horizon. Now, for those of us who have to march dutifully to a workplace, regardless of the time of year, summer seems a narrow brook, too easily hopped over.
Yet here it is upon us, calling us out of doors, into the sunshine. The days are long, the golden months of June, July and August so brief. On what scale can we take summer’s measure?
What are those milestones? Is there a list, and if there is, what does it consist of? What sensations must we take in? How can we mix memories of summers past with the present moment?
Here are a few, drawn from my own summers:
The first smell of hay drying in a field. For a lucky few, that’s followed by the sting of witch hazel on forearms red from pitching and stacking square bales.
The first ice cream cone. Creemee or hard ice cream, from a stand or home-made.
The fireflies are out in my yard, as of the weekend.
Thunderstorms that send everyone rushing for cover.
A hot dog at the ballpark. Pick-your-own strawberries. A lobster roll. Corn on the cob. Fresh tomatoes, preferably in a sandwich. Blackberrying. Cooking burgers over a fire. A gin and tonic, cool and herbal at the end of a long day.
Driving home in the evening, or even late at night, with the windows down. Some nights, the air is as tactile as it is in the winter; it seems to flow into the car and over bare arms like water. Passing from sun into forest, the air cools, as if traces of winter linger under the trees. (This effect is magnified in an old car that has vent windows.)
While we’re talking about cars, the summer wheels are out. Hardly a day goes by without a sighting of some rarity. A Ford Model T, a vintage muscle car or a late model Bentley or Lamborghini up from Connecticut for the weekend.
The first visit to a favorite beach or swimming hole, when the water is still frigid. The first flight off a rope swing. Tubing down the White River. Kids running through a sprinkler.
There is only one summer game: baseball. Throw a Frisbee to your heart’s content, but it’s no substitute for playing catch, the ball smacking into a worn mitt with a meaty “Smack!” Baseball organizes summer as well as any activity can. It is proscribed: Spectators notate their scorecards and fielders warm up in exactly the same way, from Legion ball to the pros, inning after inning, game after game. But after the cry of “Play ball,” anything can happen.
Is leisure interrupted by work or vice versa? Digging in the garden, eradicating invasive plants, cutting the grass, painting the fence, or worse, the house, it all has to get done before the snow flies. How are we supposed to check all the tasks off the list and still enjoy the warm weather? Summer is a collection of moments. After the long day painting, sitting in a chair in the yard, or on a blanket at a concert, the evening is still sweet.
What else goes on this list? Fishing, long walks, bluebird days atop Cardigan or Ascutney, reading on the porch while the freshly mopped floors are drying, Fourth of July parades and fireworks, running the back roads on a sunny day, scouting old cemeteries, sitting on a bench and staring at a Saint-Gaudens sculpture. There’s too much; it goes on and on.
But summer doesn’t. Should we hurry, rushing to gather it all in? Maybe. “Gather ye rosebuds,” and all that.
Let’s not. Make your list. Be selective. Summer will last just as long if we take our time.
Alex Hanson can be reached at ahanson@vnews.com or 603-727-3207.
