The English summer has come, and with it a surprising heat and sunshine that I never suspected England was capable of. It's nice having my second real summer here. Last summer was chilly, rainy, and miserable. There was about one week of truly warm and short and tank-top combo-provoking weather. Summer is truly here, it is truly hot, and I am truly in heaven.

When I was a child, we lived at the United States Air Force Academy (USAFA), outside of Colorado Springs, for about four years (brought to me courtesy of the military: Thank you, come again!) I remember driving into the base for the first time, and passing a Thunderbird jet permanently afixed by the entrance of the base. We'd pass the landing strip for the gliders and the parachutists. As we wove our way into the area of the base we lived on, the mountains towering above you and the valley of Colorado Spring below, I always tried to spot mountain goats and deer in the thick swathes of the trees above.

I never spotted one.

But, like Santa Clause and maxi pads with wings that really work, just because I didn't see them doesn't mean that they don't exist.

For some reason, when I look back on childhood summers the only ones that I can remember are the ones I had in Colorado. Seriously. It's like the rest of the years I was in hibernation or the memory erasure program is complete, as there's just nothing there.

I remember summers like the movies do. I remember hot summer days, where I would get out of bed, grab the top pair of shorts and tank top in the dresser, throw some Cap'n Crunch down my throat, and then head outside, resistant to coming inside for anything other than a perfunctory nod at the basics of food and indoor plumbing. The day would be spent monkeying myself up and down trees, a paperback book in hand, or tormenting my sister (always a viable option), or riding around on my bicycle, with those clicking beads attached to the spokes that announced my imminent arrival or departure.

I remember the sun out all day and into the night. I remember being packed off to bed while the sun was still around, and grumbling and arguing that as long as it was up then so should I be. I remember knobby brown knees and calves pockmarked with mosquito bites. I remember never putting a pair of shoes on unless instructed by an adult. I remember trying to fry an egg on the sidewalk, only to make an eggy mess that never quite congealed like they did on the TV. I remember faces sticky with the blue and red juicy mess of a Bomb Pop, delivered by the much beloved and beleagured ice cream man. I remember sucking those long Icee pops that you would put into the freezer and then milk the extreme sweet and sicky flavor until the last drop, the tongue curling up from the assault of it.

Good days included the use of the Slip 'N Slide. Mom would hook up the hose to the side of it, and we'd have to wait a bit as the first of the hose water would be of the "scald the dog" variety, and once the cold water was whipping down the slide, then so would we. You had to pick your arms and legs up at the end of the slide, as the slide used to be held down by what looked like two enormous metal staples whose sole design was to rip the skin from the bottom of your forearms and thighs in some sado-masochistic effort to slow children down from shooting off the end of the Slip 'N Slide and onto something gentler like, oh, grass or concrete.

At USAFA, the neighborhoods were divided into two-Douglas Valley (where we lived) and Pine valley (All My Children, anyone?), and amongst the two further divided into little roundabouts of houses called clusters. A cluster would have a total of 9 houses grouped in a ring. In our cluster, we were well equipped with children my sister's age and in the summer they would get on their My Little Pony and Strawberry Shortcake Big Wheels and try to see who was more daring on the slope of the cluster.

I swear the noise of those damn Big Wheels broke EPA regulations.

Throughout the summer the cluster would get together and have major barbecues. The cars would be parked up next to the houses and the center of the ring would be populated with barbecue grills, picnic tables, and makeshift tables. The kids would dash around doing what kids do best-annoy, question, ask for attention, and pester with irrational questions (Mom, I know you're talking about neighbor Jenny's mother's hip replacement, but can I interrupt for a second to ask you about where the deepest part of the ocean is, and how they know it's so deep? Is it really really deep? Really?). We'd weave around the grills until we got yelled at, then would make ourselves scarce until we thought the annoyance had been forgotten and the next sin could be committed.

When twilight came, so did the fireflies, which of course prompted us to run around with our empty Miracle Whip jars with holes hammered into the top to try to catch them. We padded the bottom with blades of grass and tried to catch as many as we could. We'd watch them in the jar, wondering how a bug's butt could go from orange to fluorescent, and then we'd let them go, tumbling out into the air in the dozy unrushed way that only fireflies can.

The adults would sit in their chairs, those lawn chairs that you no longer see with the meatl frame holding interlocking strips of nylon that would, eventually, break. They would nurse beers and glasses of wine as they talked into the evening. What they talked about I never understood (but I know now what adults talk about in those late evenings-nothing, really, it's just nice to drink alcohol and chat). The kids would pick at the food through the evening, battling over who could have the vanilla and chocolate parts of the Neapolitan ice cream, and then at some point be put into bed by mothers that smellt of barbecue charcoal smoke, cut grass and Heinz ketchup. We'd fall asleep instantly. In the morning the only evidence of the fun the night before would be skeleton tables still in the middle of the cluster, waiting to be taken home, and the dirty blackened feet that you woke up with after running around barefoot all night and forgetting your mother's admonishment to go wash those up before getting into bed.

Summers went on for so long that at the end of it you almost got restless, were almost ready to go back to school. I remember taking the enormous school list and heading into Target to buy them (Number 2 pencils? Check. Erasers that smell like heaven? Check. Box of kleenex? Check. Binder that you will inevitably regret and get tired of? Check.)

I remember those summers like they were yesterday. Before thinking about work, before thinking about laundry that needs doing. Those were the days when the only stress was dealing with a parent's mood and which book to read once you'd finished that one.

Now that I'm a grown-up, my summer evenings are a glass of wine outside. It's petting a cat as they swirl around my calves. It's wearing tank tops and shorts and flip flops with a baseball cap thrown on to protect my face. It's about thinking about work the next day, wondering where the next holiday will be, debate emptying the dishwasher, trying not to stress.

The fireflies, Bomb pops, Slip 'N Slides and dirty feet are gone, but it doesn't mean that I will ever forget them. The Swiss Cheese memory has given me those things to remember and hug tight, to open their jar and sniff them and remember what it was like to have those moments. It's given me those, and I will love them forever.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:40 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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