It's summertime, June 5th. Hot the eye of heaven shines. Played ones at 95° yesterday with Steven, a recent high school graduate. He'd lost a step since we'd last played, in October, just prior to his varsity season. I said as much as we sat in the shade, and hoped he wasn't offended. When I got on my bike to go home, he said, "I want to beat you by the end of the summer." And boom just like that was TEBO replenished with material.
By the end of the summer. A distinct time, evocative of final swims and nighttime sweatshirts. Right now, however, we are on summer's threshold, chapter 1, the foothills. Like all summers, this one is full of potential. Squinting at yonder majestic bluffs, do I see Little J using a kickboard? Is that RoJo wiggling, wiggling, and turning over? And there, out in July, in that UK wedding, can you see a two-year-old flower girl? Does she move in a forwardly fashion or is she a stone at the top of the aisle? I see a 50th wedding anniversary party, too, and my question is, just how late is that one going? It looks well past midnight to me.
By the end of the summer, we'll know the NBA champions, the Wimbledon and French Open winners, and we'll have an idea about who'll be competing for the MLB pennant. Beyond sports, hopefully we'll know how the BP oil disaster was finally contained. However, we likely will not know any more about when and how our two wars will end. Like David Cross said in a 2002, "At no point in time, ever, are we gonna go, 'Whew! Got 'em all! Everybody loves us again!'" Stand-up comedy paints in broad strokes, but I think the philosophy of that line is worthy of contemplation.
By the end of summer, people often change. For a few of my friends, the summer of 9th grade was like an episode of Wonder Years, featuring enough family chernobyls, alcohol epiphanies, and forays into frenching to keep Kevin Arnold's eyebrow arched for perpetuity. As for me, there were no milestones that summer, unless you count the time I got shot in the knee with a paint-ball outside Mills Pharmacy. That was a new experience. Wait, scratch that. Of course there was a milestone. That summer my dad and I hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Four miles down, and then, the next morning, eight miles back up. We were so spent we took a 3 hour nap upon reaching our lodge on the rim. Later that summer, back home, in a darkened basement, as the murmurings and rustlings of my friend and his new girlfriend kept me from properly hearing the dialogue of Die Hard, I found refuge, pride, and strength in the recollection of our accomplishment out there in Arizona.
Two days ago I experienced an update on the summer-changes-people theme. I called a friend's house to see if he and his kids wanted to swim the next day, and his wife told me, "Don't you know that he doesn't live here anymore?" I don't stutter, but I did when she told me that. Whoa. Talk about jarring. I called Jessica at work immediately after to tell her what I'd just found out, as well as to get back to a reality I knew. Just barely broached it with him when he came over. The little bit I found out is that he expects to be divorced by....the end of summer.
Thoughts now turn to the opening paragraph of Natalie Babbit's Tuck Everlasting:
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after.
Hmmmm. A glaring noon in August sounds like a likely time to lose to Steven. I'll have to prepare against that.
