This was going to be it. I’d forever remember the summer of 2017 as the time I learned to play golf. For years, I’ve loved whacking balls on the driving range. I’m an expert golf cart driver. And I’ve won my fair share of free games on the last hole of the mini golf course. So in May I decided that I was going to spend my summer learning to play the real sport.
After being pregnant last summer (and spending most of my days at home with my feet in a plastic wading pool), I figured that this was going to be a summer to remember. I was going to make up for lost time by spending every day on some sort of adventure. I was going to climb Mt. Cardigan with my baby on my back. I was going to paint and seal my old wooden picnic table. I was going to plant peonies in my garden. I was going to see a double feature at the drive-in in Fairlee. And I was finally going to tube down the river from Hartland to Windsor, an adventure I’ve wanted to try for years.
And boy, did my summer start out with a bang. June was filled with activity. I kayaked up the Connecticut with friends at dusk, introduced my son to Storrs Pond, ate my weight in steamer clams on a quick trip to the Massachusetts coast. Before the end of the month, I had sampled nearly all the pistachio ice cream in the Upper Valley and had introduced my son to the spectacle of summer fireflies. And the highlight of June? Well, I finally gained the courage to attend a belly dancing class at the recreation center. (After being curious for months, my girlfriends and I perfected our hip shake.)
It was an invigorating start. I had checked off a few boxes on my summer list and was in a great position to achieve the summer of a lifetime. Politics aside, it was shaping up to be the best summer ever. But after a quick bout of strep throat, I got a little lazier. I’d put off my hike for the next day. I decided that it was more important to sit in the yard than sitting in traffic. I’d spend a day playing in the sprinkler rather than at the beach. And the next thing I knew, it was the end of August.
I’m not sure what I did in July. Everything after belly dancing is a bit of a blur. I know I never made it to the drive-in. I know I never brought my son on a hike. And an unworn, new bathing suit that hangs in my closet is a reminder that I never went back to Storrs Pond.
My grandfather used to say that the end of summer began on the Fourth of July. I’m not that much of a pessimist. Yet every summer seems to go by faster than the previous year. It seems like blueberry season is over before I can make a pie. The lakes are cold before I get the chance to swim. The al fresco restaurants have moved their tables inside before I’ve had a chance to dine outdoors. And in the blink of an eye, my garden is nothing but browned remnants of flowers I’ve already forgotten.
Yet I have nothing about which to complain. I had a wonderful summer. The days went by quickly because I enjoyed them. I have few memories because I stopped planning and started living. Evidence of July and August exist in well-worn flip-flops, a filthy car and an exhausted Labrador retriever. Apparently I lived a full life this summer. I just don’t remember most of it.
Stores start selling back-to-school backpacks in June. I used to roll my eyes at all the composition books and markers lining the shelves only days after the end of the school year. But now, I understand the retail rush. After all, in a blink of an eye, it’s September.
And while this might not have been my personal “Summer to Remember,” it was one I’m content to forget. And as for golf? There will always be next year.
Becky Munsterer Sabky lives in Norwich.