I have always been the kind of person where the 'New Year' does NOT begin January 1st. For me, it begins in September and used to involve school clothes shopping, sharpened pencils, and the anticipation of who would be in my class for the upcoming school year. This has continued into my adulthood and has only been reinforced with my career choice as a teacher. What began in September as a child has been pushed back to mid-August as an adult. For me, that is the mark of each year; not the singing along to Auld Lang Syne as the mirrored ball is dropped on TV in the Big Apple, but the end of another season, summer.
Just before my 'New Year' begins, I experience the mournful loss of the last days of summer. Ah Summer! Summer to me now is a mixture of imagery, scents, sounds and taste buds. And just as when Auld Lang Syne is sung, I feel it in my being, as the long lasting hours of sunlight diminish. I am alone.
Summer is blackberry-stained fingers with injured pricks and the soft ping as I throw another purple gem into the giant cooking cauldron in anticipation of the jam, jelly or pies to be made by mom. Better yet, vanilla ice cream with a scoopful of the plump, juicy berries so sweet that no sugar need be added both demonstrated and taught by dad. It’s the taste of the sinful concoction after having been stirred with a spoon and greedily shoveled into my mouth, resting on my tongue and savored before it slides down my throat in time to give me a cold freeze food headache. It’s this tradition that is passed on to my children and shared with friends or family that is summer to me. It’s this tradition, of berries stirred into a simple scoop of vanilla ice cream that reminds me again another summer has passed without the chief, the creator and connoisseur of the frozen purple treat. There is a vacant spot, where he once sat. The Head of our Household growing up is no more.
It’s going to bed as a little girl on a hot summer’s night, exhausted but also irritated with the fact that it seemed like a downright waste of daylight, to have the sun out and the moon nowhere in sight, as my head was resting upon my pillow. This later to be exchanged for a sigh of relief when the clock strikes seven and I find myself, in turn, ushering words of encouragement and cool washcloths placed on the foreheads, of three blonde, and thoroughly spent little people during the summer’s brightly lit evenings. I empathize with their sense of injustice but need respite in the evening hours after an eventful day spent swimming, biking, exploring, and more and finally understand my parents’ bedtime demands despite the late daylight. Another day is closing, another memory unfolding in my young children’s lives. I am bone-weary, exhausted and content with my parenting but feeling the beginnings of discord within myself. I am alone and able to reflect upon the days’ events-- their father at the firehouse. I feel myself struggle with the push of independence and the pull of my marriage vows.
Summer to me was lying next to my three siblings in the open sky, in our backyard, canopied by millions of stars. It was the thrill of being outside, scared with each crackle or snap of a twig or the teasing of a dad’s voice through a screened-in window, pretending to be a mighty bear, or the giggling of a mom as he did so. Now it's the joy of lying next to my own children on a blue plastic tarp with pillows, an active little dog, stuffed animals, sleeping bags, quilts and the tenderness of the open sky speaking to all four of us simultaneously as a shooting star demonstrates it’s glory for us as a special treat. Its magic is not lost by my children, or myself even in the wee years of their existence, or in the more experienced passing of mine. Perhaps it is because of my experience that I am truly able to appreciate the wonder of a hot summer evening’s beauty while nestled in the Mt. Diablo foothills, in a town of quiet suburbia. Perhaps it’s my experience that causes me to take pause and appreciate the moment with my children, alone, though married. I have the appreciation, as I lay next to my three sardine-nestled children, of the connection we share with one another. With my family. With friends. But regarding matters between their father and I, I feel a large void, ever widening. We are two married people living together as though single. He gingerly reaches his arm across the couch and I instinctively flinch at his touch, causing him to react in anger. Our desire to spend time with one another is as absent as his presence at the dinner table. Duty calls.
As a child, summer brought the far-off blowing of a train whistle, unbelievably heard through the opened screened-in windows in the early morning hours. As an adult, summer sounds include the serenade of frogs and crickets in the home located next to the creek as we finally, finally settle down to sleep.
Summer to me, was being slathered with Coppertone lotion by Mom, while watching my dad patiently place the wiggling worm on the small wire hook for our child-sized fishing poles. We cast our pint-sized lines into the water, lined up four in a row and unable to comprehend how we could become tangled again. Subconsciously I think we all enjoyed the tender, patient care from our dad who perhaps did not always display it in our regular household setting quite so generously. On these summer excursions next to a body of water, usually a lake, sometimes a river or an ocean, we lay our bellies pressed against our towels, toes in the sand, and knew we had nothing more important to decide than whether to stand and fish or lay on our backs on the cheap floating blow-up mattresses. Or as an alternative, we could build sand castles, sit on the beach chairs and face the water’s edge munching on whatever heavenly snacks mom had assembled in the squeaky Styrofoam cooler, or continue casting our lines into the water. As an adult, summer involves more of the same, but frequently the setting is a neighborhood community pool and we are joined by other families who savor the cold water, water wings and games of sharks and minnows executed by the caste of children within a two-block radius. I have a community, a family. The Head of Household for my children is working again. His intentions honorable, to earn more money, be a good provider. But here we live, in the throes of summer, a quartet, never a quintet.
While visiting my friend in Lexington this past week, we returned from an evening walk. Having been captured by the magic of fireflies, I knew deep within my soul just what she meant as she handed me a piece of toast slathered in raspberry jam and said, “It tastes like summer.”
It was bittersweet as I bit into it, knowing our visit was ending, summer passing and a New Year was beginning. Just as my world has changed, with my father’s passing, so too, has my children’s over the years, with the demise of their parents’ marriage. And while my world begins anew, solo, my children’s continues with a new song, together. The beginnings of a sad melody have ceased playing with only the recollection of it remaining. I savored both the jam and the moment. In it, their parents’ are separate on their journeys but united in the love for their children. I reply, “Yes, it does taste like summer.” Our song, shared by my children and I, is filled with hope and the promise of new beginnings.
