Fall is nigh, so our thoughts can turn to the classic “What I Did Last Summer” essay. They’re not just for second graders and their glitter pens anymore. My own summer was so chock full of highlights that one could never list them all, so it’s better to go in the opposite direction.
I call this “What I Didn’t Do Last Summer.” I will have to resort to a list, with commentary, or the Valley News might have to publish a special section. My life is pretty good, but the things I don’t do are way more numerous and fabulous.
I didn’t go to London. I didn’t go to France. Why travel when Route 12A has it all, and a handy landfill to get rid of all of it?
On the home front, I regret not buying up stockpiles of Vermont Public Radio mugs and tote bags. VPR’s transition to the clipped name Vermont Public has puzzled and annoyed many loyal listeners, of which I am one. The classic VPR swag will explode in value like bitcoins and non-fungible tokens, whatever they are or may turn out to be.
It wasn’t me who left the plastic bags of dog poop on Upper Valley trails. I don’t have a dog at present, but when I did, my pups preferred to do their business right in our own yard, where I might later step in it. The plastic poop parcels have become the scourge of local Listserv posters. Tensions are rising. Bad feelings are escalating. Meanwhile, dogs are still tail-waggingly happy, since they avoid social media. There is a lesson in there somewhere.
We attended quite a few summer outdoor concerts in the Upper Valley — from folk to rock to Yankee Brass Band. I sadly confess that I tapped my toes but never got up and danced, not even to Stars and Stripes Forever. Speaking of the Yankee Brass Band, in their summer tour they played the sprightly Windsor House Polka, inspired by our own local town. If radio stations would only play it, it would surely be a hit with what people my age call “the young people.” You can find it on YouTube, where social influencers don’t know what they are missing.
Even though I have gone back to my part-time job at a local high school library, I didn’t order a Dr. Fauci lunchbox. They are probably illegal in Florida, where all good things are eaten by alligators.
In summer 2022, I didn’t come to grips with the Dunkin’ in a parking lot on the Miracle Mile in Lebanon. I have previously disclosed my concern and alarm at the tortured logistics, which seem to violate any principle of planning, zoning, common sense and what used to be called The American Way.
I know I may be making too big a deal of this, but the right to do so is in the senior Declaration of Independence, which calls for life, liberty and the pursuit of crabbiness.
As far as reaching new heights, I didn’t climb Mount Kilimanjaro, Mount Everest, Mount Washington or Gile Mountain in Norwich. I did stroll up Seminary Hill in West Lebanon now and again. It is an underrated natural feature that deserves more attention from the National Geographic Society. If they would pay to outfit an expedition, I would produce a thrilling report on the challenge of free-climbing it.
I don’t think I even once posed a threat to democracy, although I don’t think you could do that without some intent. I’m sure my wife, Dede, would let me know if I did. She alerts me to perils such as unmatched socks or comfortable pants that are starting to look shabby. Such attention to detail can be a great service to older men, along with discreet alerts that their fly has gone south.
This summer I didn’t become a yoga master, chainsaw juggler or bodybuilder. The latter seems a long shot at age 69, when the six-pack seems to want to transform into a keg.
I didn’t much follow the Red Sox, who in the spirit of this analysis didn’t field well, pitch well or hit well when it counted. At least they were consistent. They didn’t run the bases very well, either.
Also on my own not-done list: skydiving, making a TikTok video, collecting bottle caps (why has this fallen out of favor?), walking backward for fitness, riding a unicycle, whittling, accordion lessons and re-memorizing the state capitals (no one ever asks you to recite them anymore, more’s the pity.)
And there are so many reality TV shows not to watch.
As they say — or at least Frank Sinatra did — that’s life. So little time, so much not to do.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.
