Who doesn't love summer time? Well, there must be some people, some lovers of the brightly colored leaf, the frosty cold. But here's me - a summer fan. I like how it smells - all cut grass and breezy; flower-drenched. I like the green trees and sun and all that, too. I have a summer birthday; I like presents and parties. But I think the biggest draw has always been the sense of freedom summer brings. No jacket, no school, Ghost in the Graveyard till 10 at night,
no storm windows. I really like screen doors.
When I was ten, summer meant riding our bikes to Rainbow Park with sack lunches tied to our backs, our tires wobbly on the dirt trail by the chain link fence where that one stinkin dog always barked and tried to get our pedals. We (we being me, my sister Angie and usually one or two of our neighborhood friends) threw down our bikes at the big meadowy hill and chowed sandwiches and Capri Sun. Then I think we played tetherball, but I might be wrong about this.
We returned home sweaty and tired, having raced on the way home, with Cindy Smith trying to win by doing that bobbing thing up the hills. Our kickstands melted into the asphalt of the driveway (the next day my brother would measure the depth of the kickstand hole and compare it to previous days). We stuck our heads in the freezer until our mom yelled at us to get out of the kitchen while she tried to make Beef Stoganoff in the electric skillet.
I went to bed sweaty again, probably, but happy knowing that we could do the very exact thing tomorrow if we wanted to.
Growing older, of course, brings more responsibility and perhaps less freedom, but summer always has has that free edge. Margaritas with dinner outside on a patio, camping in the middle of some woods right next to your car, no jacket, swimming, popsicles in the middle of the day. Screen doors.
Dare I complain from my beautiful little garden room? Dare I open the pretty french doors and scream bloody murder?
I am attached to a pain pump and a catheter which drains my left lung. And I just want to go swimming. A long fast swim like at swim team in 7th grade. A 20 foot deep bottom search at Lannon Quarry where I was a lifeguard and swim instructor with pretty pink lungs and a whistle. A leisurely sidestroke with my Gramma in her inground pool (pick the apple, put it in the basket; pick the apple, put it in the basket). A crazy handholding bobjumping headgoinunder with my daughter, Luka, as we swam around Creston Pool. Mama and Baby Fish.
Pull this stuff out of me so I can go swimming. Enough with the hurrah I'm brave. They better make some seriously good margaritas in whatever afterlife I'm set for.
Tomorrow, I will find some kombucha to drink, have a massage and resched. my appointment witth my Chinese herb practitioner.
But today, folks, I am screaming bloody murder.