thoughts, words, deeds

what we do in the summertime

What are your favorite summer memories?

I’m not sure what to think about this one. I have forty-one years worth of summer memories to choose from, and when I try to come up with a list of favorites . . . well, I don’t do well with favorite lists. They always make me think of too many things, because for me, favorite depends on my mood and the time of day and the phase of the moon and how many colors the world is sending my way. In other words, I have too many favorites to make the term useful. And when I try to come up with a comprehensive list, my mind goes completely blank, which makes me think that maybe I don’t have any summer memories at all.

But I know that I have. One set of favorites are road trips that I’ve taken with my family. Because we lived across the country from my parent’s families (my mother’s parents were in Ohio and her sister in California; my father’s family was scattered across the mountain west—Colorado, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, California . . . at various times. We, on the other hand, lived in Pennsylvania, Connecticut, New York, and Maryland, from the time I was three to eighteen—miles and cultural variations away) we spent time almost every year traveling. Most often we went to my mother’s parent’s house in Ohio, but at least once every four years, we went to a family reunion which always managed to be out west. They actually happened every other year, but we couldn’t afford to go every year.

So, part of my childhood summers (and a couple of winters) involved road trips across the states. We usually camped along the way, pitching tents and using sleeping bags. Mama wasn’t fond of roughing it, so at least one year, we fitted the back of our van (six kids means twelve seater van, eventually) with a bed that we would nap in as we traveled. I would read or play games with my siblings or do puzzles. Dad always read aloud to Mama in the front—the books varied. A lot of Georgette Heyer and Dick Francis. They still read aloud to each other. Sometimes we’d sing together. That was always fun.

I went to camp every year from twelve to eighteen. That was fun—but muddy of course. And hot. I can make fire (even without a car battery and steel wool) and do rudimentary first aid, which has come in handy several times in my life. I went on hikes.

I always did reading in the summers. When I was old enough, I got jobs. I worked the switch board half days at the summer school. I took health the other half, mostly because Dad thought that summer school was a great thing (not understanding that where we lived it was all remedial—he’d had great experiences in his summer school as a boy) and because it was a required course that I didn’t terribly want to have to take for an entire semester during the school year. I volunteered another summer at a school for developmentally disabled children that was within walking distance of our townhouse. That was difficult, although the children were so very special. It made me certain that this wasn’t something I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

Ten years ago, I spent a week in July and August in the hospital. When I came out, I lost most the rest of the summer because I was adjusting to my new life with type one diabetes.

I love to swim. Not that I’m very good at it. I love going to water parks, although the really long sliding rides are not my favorite. I like the splash but not the feeling of going down the hill. I like summer weddings. One year I went to three—two of my sisters and my boyfriend’s brother. That was fun to be part of.

But I think that my favorite thing to do is usually the thing that I’m having fun with at the moment. And that changes with the day and my mood. And the season and the percentage of heat and humidity in question and the phase of the moon . . . among other things.