Summer Jams

I did not post earlier today because my family and I are at a Family Reunion with my parents and all my siblings and their spouses and all of our kids. That's 50 cousins. We've been out at the lake all day today and now we are home and everything - our minds, our skin, and our patience levels - are fried. It was a great day. 

We roadtripped it for this family reunion, and that, of course, required a Summer Mix on the ol' iPod. Truth be known, that mix was made a couple of months ago. I totally make seasonal iPod mixes. I make them for summer, autumn, and Christmas. But nothing for January through May, because that would just be obnoxious. Amirite? Wayyyy overboard. Reign it in there, Charles McMusic. 

So, we are at the end of July and well into summer, folks. May I ask what's on your summer play mix? We always create a mix of some current jams as well as classics, oldies (80's), and real oldies. And we'll throw most stuff if there that has "summer" in the title. But not everything that says "summer." (I'm looking in your direction, Richard Marx, with your Endless Summer Nights and your whatnot.) And don't you have memories of summers growing up - and there are songs that totally remind you of that summer, and even though they don't really have anything to do with summer, you kind of want to listen to them and include them in your mix? GO AHEAD! This is America! You can do it! 

Here is a sampling from our mix. Keep in mind, there are almost 10 of us in the car. Two adults plus kids ranging from 16 to 2. Everybody has an opinion. But these are ones we can agree on. 

Craigs 2013 Summer Play List

Summertime - The Sundays

Strawberry Swing - Coldplay

On Top of the World - Imagine Dragons

Rain in the Summertime - The Alarm

Summertime - DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince (Mostly because Katie knows all the words and it's adorable to watch her sing it.)

These Are Days - 10,000 Maniacs

A Summer Song - Chad & Jeremy

Under the Boardwalk - The Drifters

Surfin' Safari - The Beach Boys

California Girls - The Beach Boys

What am I missin', friends? Shout 'em out. I'll write them down. 

Summer is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans

It's about balance, right?

Author's note: This post was written on Saturday and retroactively posted to Friday but don't tell anyone.

Summer. What to do? It's the end of June and already I feel liked we've packed some good stuff into our Summer Break. So far, one or more of us has been to the Provo Rec Center, Seven Peaks, Moab, made a movie, and visited Chicago. We've been on bike rides. We've seen most of the major blockbuster movies together. 

We are a family that, most of the time, doesn't do much. We sit and play board games, video games, watch TV and movies, and eat. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) More activity has been good for us.

I'd like to continue to be more active as a family this summer. Some ideas are: go to Goblin Valley for a weekend, maybe try to get to Grandma's in Lodi, CA (stopping at some cool stuff along the way), local camping, Park City, Vegas, and Disneyland. If we manage to do one of those, it'll be a success.

One reason for all the excitement about plans this year is that we did absolutely nothing last summer. We had a good reason though. This weekend marks the one year anniversary of my wife's pacemaker surgery and all that near-death drama.  This year, there's this sense that we want to soak a lot more in because—and this will sound melodramatic—you never know when it will all end. Do I want my kids to remember our time together as one, long couch marathon, or do I want them to remember it as a time we did a shload of cool things together?

What I've realized more than anything is that I've had blinders on for a while. I've seen life as this trek I have to trudge through rather than something to be savored actively. Getting out and among other tourists, locals, weirdos, and hobos helped me to appreciate my life more and enjoy other people more. 

When I was in Chicago recently, I tried an experiment. As I walked through the city, I kept my head up and kept a smile on my face. It was cool to see how many people looked me in the eye. Only a handful of people smiled back, and I think this method attracted more vagabonds but ... I felt connected to everyone. Like we were all acquainted. It helped me finish a transition that I've been making the last few months. Coming out of the enclosed, selfish, drudgery, and into a more open, grateful place. No matter what you believe, this life is the only time we will have it. Either it's over when you die or it becomes something totally different if you get to live forever. Why wait, sit, and waste?

It's allowed me to look at this summer with more hope and happiness than I've had in a long time. It's helped me to feel real joy for the good things that are happening to the people I know. It makes me want to be a part of life and participate. I want everyone to get out, do things they love, with the people they love, and I'll be doing that too. Sounds like a plan.

What are your summer plans?

My Summer Dreams are Simple

That's not mold on my shoulder. It's just a shadow.

When summer starts, the world seems full of promise. It is a beautiful new beginning. A clean slate of long, brightly lit days ahead of you. It’s kind of like when your kids go back to school and you feel like you are getting a fresh start on everything. The only difference being that in September my goals are around being more productive and focused and having a plan. And in the summer my goals take on a slightly different, more lazy feel.

Oh, I am still goal oriented, mind you. But I don’t want the goals to be strenuous or meaningful. So here are my hopes and dreams for the summer:

1. Grow a beard. I think if the main topic of this blog is fatherhood, the subtopic is hair and the lack there of or abundance thereof. (And the sub-sub topic would be Ken being naked.) Much like I cannot grow hair on my head, I cannot grow an actual beard. But I am on vacation this week. And then I am home for a week and then on ANOTHER vacation, so this is the year to give the beard a real chance to become established. Right now the beard is in the bristly, patchy, obnoxious stage. (The photo above has enhanced contrast thanks to Instagram, so the beard looks deceptively full.) 
2. Read more. Particularly while on vacation and while sitting on my back porch. I set a goal on Goodreads to read 70 books this year and I am currently 12 behind, so I need to really do some serious sitting on my butt to get caught up. As far as I am concerned, the kids can play frisbee with themselves - these Young Adult Sci-Fi Zombie Romanpocalypses aren’t going to read themselves!! 
3. Eat more Popsicles. This will be hard to do, since I already eat one Popsicle a day (usually right before bed, much to my wife’s chagrin.) But don’t you think one Popsicle a day seems sad and lonely? Shouldn’t that number be closer to 3 or 5? We’re in agreement then? Great. 
4. Catch up on Dr. Who. I’m tired of being behind. I’m sad that I didn’t get to watch Asylum of the Dalek’s with everyone else. I guess I care that Matt Smith is leaving but I haven’t watched any episodes of his yet, so I don’t really care. But I should. And I want to. So I need to kick the Netflix into high gear and get all up to speed on my Timelord Lore. 
5.  Go to more movies by myself. A few weeks ago I really wanted to see Star Trek. And so after the kids were in bed one night, I just went. It was delightful and I loved it. Summer is full of movies that my wife has no interest in seeing. So I should just go. Elysium, I’m looking at you.

So that’s it. I’m not trying to lose 50 pounds. Or finish the great American Novel. Just some good, old-fashioned summer laziness. The world shall be my oyster. My lazy, inconsequential oyster.

By the End of Summer...

The wisest choice I made as a teenager was to avoid being filmed in home videos. (The second wisest choice I made was to eat TWO Double-Doubles every time I went to In-N-Out. Ah, the metabolism of a teenager. I miss it.)

I don’t remember the precise year home video cameras were priced low enough that every American family decided to own one; but if memory serves, I believe our family got one Christmas 1985. I was 14 years old.

Few people can pull off 14 well. You've got Frankie Muniz, Michael Cera, and of course, Justin Bieber. I am none of those people. I knew it even then, so I avoided the lens.

There is some horrific footage of a 1988 Ward Roadshow practice where I played the unfortunate roll of John-Boy (of Waltons’ fame), and it is extremely painful to watch. If you are ever forced at gun-point to watch it, you can see that I clearly felt I was doing everyone a favor by showing up to practice. I had perfected the “eye roll” that all mentors and leaders enjoy seeing in youth, and I was chomping the heck out of a piece of gum – as if the flavor had personally offended me and I was going to kill it.

But as painful as it is, I occasionally watch the footage when I’m alone. Because it serves as a reminder that I was wise beyond my years to avoid being videotaped. I wince as I watch, then I pat myself on my back, and carefully put the video tape back in the unmarked shoe box in my closet. Never to be seen by my children.

Instead, my children snoop through things like old photo albums and boxes. And recently, they found this photo of me.

Judging by the orange/pink/yellow medley going on with those swim trunks – combined with the light swirls of navel hair peeking through the life jacket – I’m going to say this is summer 1987. 16 years old.

I have no recollection of this photo being taken. But I absolutely love it, and here’s why:

1. My kids think it looks awesome. THIS is how they think of me as a teenager, and not some plaid-wearin’, gum-chompin’, eye-rollin’ John-Boy who could eat two Double-Doubles with fries, root beer, and chocolate shake. (You're judging me, aren't you?) So this picture has won me “cool points” with my kids.

2. I most likely have U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” going through my head in this shot. This was the summer of The Joshua Tree, after all.

3. I look at this photo and I feel washed over with nostalgia and memories of summers gone by and the water skiing trips of my youth - every summer, all summer long. At least I think they were all summer long. As I've admitted, the memories of summers of my youth may be a bit fuzzy.

4. The photo is slightly out of focus. Just a bit blurry. Which gives the appearance of...well, look closely at my face. What do you see there? Is that…smolder? I could swear it is, but I have no idea how it got there.

But here is my plan this summer: To capture the 2013, 42-years-old version of this moment! It will not be easy, my friends. I have no boat, no fluorescent swim trunks, no idea if I can still ski like that...and a smolder that looks more like I just ate a rotten grapefruit. Or like Chuck, when he flashes. 

I just want my children to think I've always been super cool, and I'll need at least two photos to submit as evidence. I'll also need to destroy all video tapes from the 1980s. Also...I may need to eat two Double-Doubles in one sitting. My summer will not be complete until I make this happen. Please check back and hold me accountable. 

How about you guys? Do you have a Summer Bucket List?

Summer, I love you.

This is what we've been doing at my house lately. A little bit of this

and some of this

and a whole lotta this

Yep, we're sliding down rainbows. 

It's been pretty amazing. Schools been winding down, the weather has been hot and every day the kids want to run through the sprinklers. Which means my lawn gets watered and I get to sit on my shady back porch and read a book or check Facebook and sip an icy Diet Coke. And that, to me, is heaven.

When I was younger, I loved fall. I loved the clothes and the sitting by the fire and cuddling under a blanket on a rainy day. But fall is a young man's game. In the fall, my kids are stuck inside with me all day, they fight over who's turn it is to play Pokemon Tower Defense, the hot chocolate is too hot and they've taken all the blankets to make a fort. 

So now it is summer for me, all the way. I love to see my yard turn green. I love mowing my lawn and listening to a podcast. I love that I don't feel so guilty if my kids want to play a video game, because they have been outside for the last hour jumping on the trampoline and let's be honest, it's hot out there. I love that my kids can go outside and jump on the trampoline. I love the prospect of a vacation where I can sit on my butt for a week and read. (I have 2 planned this year!! One in two weeks and one in a month!!) I love that I'm not freezing when I get out of bed in the morning. I love my swamp cooler.  I love wearing jorts. I love running when it is warm and drinking out of the garden hose when I am done. I love tomatoes. I love that when I have a day off, the kids get up and go watch TV and I don't have to wake up and get them ready and off to the school bus. I love that there is no homework. I love that it is sunny and light. I love drinking 400 Diet Cokes in a day, because let's be honest, it's hot out there.

So welcome, Summer! Let's all raise a glass of hose water and toast this wonderful season. In about 2 weeks it will probably be 108 and my swamp cooler will make the doors in my house stick closed because it will run 24 hours a day and I will wake up sweaty and it will be too hot to run. But for now, let's let summer be the glorious, happy wonderful promise. 

Summer Fever

Every year, around the beginning of June, I start showing signs of what has become self-diagnosed and labeled as Summer Fever. To suppress the symptoms, my doctor has suggested wearing flip-flops and using my dad’s Chevron card to put gas in my car. But when I brought it up, Dad just gave me a dirty look. It’s like he doesn’t even care about my health.

I don’t know how I’ve never outgrown the phenomenon that is The Beginning of Summer, but it’s just instinctive. It’s like I forget I’m a grown up, with a job, a mortgage, and a vocabulary that should not include words like “dude” or “freakin’.”

I suddenly have the urge to get up around 10:00 a.m., catch up on some music videos, go to a friend’s house to swim, order pizza that my friend’s mom pays for, then head off to a dark, air conditioned movie theater to watch the most recently released summer blockbuster. Then my friend and I call a couple of girls to accompany us to In-N-Out Burger, and then go to another movie. But now, when I call Katie to go, she just says stuff like, “ Where are you? I have dinner on the table…We’re sitting here waiting for you.” Apparently Katie isn’t really concerned about my health either.

I have wonderfully fond memories of summers growing up in California. And I think one of the reasons that they are so wonderful and fond, is that I am fondly remembering specific days, and then wonderfully imagining that every day was like that. (This is one of the warning signs of Summer Fever.)

The mood of summer, for me personally, is capriciousness or frivolity. Whimsicality. This was especially the case when you had Disneyland, Six Flags Magic Mountain, Knott’s Berry Farm, Sea World, Universal Studios, and Raging Waters at your doorstep. These were tiny, magnificent worlds, the furthest only 90 minutes from my home. A complete escape to another fantastic existence. A world where all the characters and employees there make you feel like the gates were opened today because we knew you were coming.

It wasn’t only the amusement parks, though. The summer was just packed. We would make weekly jaunts to Zuma Beach, where a single day felt like an entire summer itself. We’d arrive at the beach, lay out the beach blankets and towels, and then get out the food as if we were going to have lunch first; only to be overcome by the exhilaration of that huge ocean, and go running headfirst into a wave. Then, an hour later, waterlogged and with clear sinuses from the salt water, we’d drag ourselves onto the sand and eat like it was the first meal we’d been given since floating to shore from a deserted island. We’d bury ourselves in the sand, throw a Frisbee around, dig for sand crabs, build sandcastles, and wish we never had to go home. Eventually we’d all climb into the van and promptly fall asleep on the drive home. Then, groggy and salty, I would climb out of the van, find my way to the shower, and wonder to myself how that much sand could still possibly be falling off of me – and from unspeakable places!

We additionally made monthly waterskiing trips where we’d throw out sleeping bags on the shore and literally sleep a few feet from the water. And sleeping would generally be the only time we weren’t in the water. It was no strange thing to go on a skiing trip and never have your swimsuit completely dry. These trips were commonly three- or four-day trips. By day four we were three shades darker (either red or brown), our lips were so chapped it was like somebody took a blowtorch to them…and then a cheese grater, we’d consumed 438 ounces of soda and never left the lake once to use a bathroom, and our feet were so calloused, we could play hopscotch on hot coals.

There was also camping in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, pool parties, barbecues, staying up late, getting up late, the smell of sunscreen, the smell of popcorn at the movie theater, breaking curfew, playing hide-and-go-seek in cars. The list goes on. Summer just always seemed like the season for very little real responsibility. And around this time of year, I miss that.

And if my boss can’t understand my illness, I may just call in sick one day, take two matinees and call my doctor in the morning. Seriously, is there nobody that cares about my health?

Molokai Style

As the weather warms up and summer approaches, I have to tell you a Summer Story. It was twenty-five years ago this summer when my dad moved us to Hawaii.

It all began one night after dinner, circa 1986. My dad sat us all down and, unassisted by alcohol or peyote, told us that we were going to sell our house, buy a boat, and sail around the world. He had seven children, a flourishing CPA business, and apparently, a low tolerance for living out his days in Middle America. I was 15 and not impressed with this plan. If I could go back in time, I would smack my 15-year old self, because of course it would be incredible to live a life of globetrotting; but at the time, I was not thrilled with the dangers of the high seas. Sharks, pirates, and a lack of church dances left a bad taste in my mouth.

Fortunately, I had a plan. I suggested that before we do anything irrational we should probably rent the Harrison Ford movie, Mosquito Coast, wherein an eccentric and dogmatic inventor sells his house and takes his family to Central America – by boat – to build an ice factory in the middle of the jungle. He goes completely crazy. At least…I think he does. The movie was kind of slow, so most of us kids left my parents watching it while we went into the other room and watched a rerun episode of Who’s the Boss?, starring a pre-skanky Alyssa Milano and small screen sensation Tony Danza. Riveting.

The plan must have worked, and Dad must have recognized the dangers of going crazy at sea (as well as the dangers of assuming that every Harrison Ford movie would be sensational—anything post 1995, I’m looking in your direction), because he never brought up the plan again and simultaneously stopped insisting we answered him with an “Ai, ai, Captain” whenever he asked us to do something. Who’s the boss now?

But he was still restless.

Fast-forward to 1988. 

We had another Family Meeting. This time, Dad explained that we would be selling our home and leaving all things glorious in Southern California for the opportunity to move to a tiny Hawaiian island by the name of Molokai. While there were decidedly fewer opportunities to be attacked by sharks or pirates while on land (equal opportunities for church dances), I wasn't convinced this was a great alternative. However there were zero movies starring Harrison Ford about a man going crazy in Hawaii. Unless you count the original screenplay for Temple of Doom, which was supposed to take place in Hawaii instead of India. Which also, I just made that up.

I had no way to thwart my father’s plan, so in August of 1988, we moved from Westlake, California to Kualapu’u, (pronounced, no joke, koala-poo-oo), Molokai, Hawaii. An island only six miles wide and thirty miles long.

When you tell people you lived on Molokai, you get one of two responses. “Never heard of it” or “Isn't that where the lepers are?” You are correct on both accounts. For the most part, even people who live on another Hawaiian island raise their eyebrows and are most surprised to hear that there are people alive and well on Molokai. In short, you will not find Molokai in your Fabulous Hawaiian Vacation brochure. Unless you were hoping to see the lepers; but even then, there isn't much left of them. (Zoing! Thank you, I'll be here all week.)

August 1988 was the month before I started my senior year in high school. Do you know how hard it is to move out of the state just before your senior year in high school? Not nearly as difficult as it is to find people who feel bad for you, since you are moving to Hawaii and they are not.

To pass the time on our flight from L.A. to Honolulu, I did a great deal of blubbering. I blubbered over the girl I was leaving in California; I blubbered over missing the suburb where I grew up; I blubbered over being an entire ocean away from In-N-Out; I blubbered over the in-flight movie (Three Men &a Baby, an emotional rollercoaster of love, laughter, and life lessons); and I blubbered over the hits-of-the-day tunes on my Walkman, including Cheap Trick’s The Flame, Guns n’ Roses Sweet Child of Mine, and Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy. (I've never wanted to throat-punch somebody more. Honestly, Bobby. You should worry; because if we ever meet, I am going to slap the “happy” right out of you.)

We spent a few days on Oahu doing all the touristy stuff we could manage to cram into our mini-stop – including the Polynesian Cultural Center, cliff jumping at Waimea Bay, walking Waikiki, flying in a glider plane, and touring the Dole Pineapple Plantation. It sounds like we were sitting in the lap of luxury, yes? But you forget. My dad had just taken a leave of absence from employment, he had seven children, and all these fun activities cost a ridiculous amount of money. How do you fund such an outing? Well, you do away with hotels and three square meals a day. That’s how.

We spent those first four days on Oahu in a minivan, my friend. We subsisted on bread and fresh fruit, purchased each morning. We spent the bulk of each day swimming at the beach, then driving around in wet swim suits, with wet towels (because nothing ever completely dries in humid places such as the Islands). By day four, I can’t describe the odious funk that permeated that minivan. Mildew-saturated towels and clothing, combined with old fruit rinds, combined with teenage body odor.  (Man, I missed church dances.) 

The nights were the worst, really. Dad would drive around until it got late enough that the police stopped patrolling the beaches.  Then he’d pull over and some of us would throw our towels out onto the sand and sleep, and some of the more fortunate souls called dibs on the seats in the van. It was a catch-22. Van seats weren't comfortable, but you ran the risk of being eaten alive by mosquitoes outside. I was so impressed when Dad handed that minivan back into Alamo Rental with a straight face.

Eventually we flew over to Molokai with about a week and half until school started. Here I have listed a few of my first impressions about Molokai:

• It smells fantastic.
• The dirt is red.
• There are no stoplights.
• There are barely any stop signs.
• Nobody pays attention to the stop signs.
• Everyone leaves their keys in the car ignition, because everybody knows which car belongs to whom. (Population: 6,000 folks.)
• Everyone picks up hitchhikers.
• The east end of the island is lush, with lagoons and an almost jungle-like feel; and the winding roads to get there make the trip longer than anywhere else you could go on the island. The west end is almost desert-like until you reach the coast, where the white-sand beaches are amazing. The north end holds the Guinness Book of World Records for the highest sea cliffs – and at the bottom is a peninsula, where the lepers live. The south end of the island has the wharf, groves of palm trees, and some restaurants and residential areas.

My brother and I eating octopus that had just come out of that water right behind us. 

Some things that made life easier:

• I got to visit another island almost once a month, for some school, church, or family-related activity.
• The local grocery store owner had Haagen-Dazs ice cream imported weekly just for our family.
• The first video store on the island opened the same week we moved there. Coincidence? Not hardly.
• I made friends that were more accepting than I had ever anticipated, and they kept me sane.
• The beach, the beach, the beach.

I knew I was becoming localized when:

• I ate sticky rice, poi, Portuguese sausage, and raw squid at 6:00 a.m. at Seminary Breakfast Parties.
• I left my keys in my car ignition at all times.
• I didn't always wear shoes to school.

I was only there the one year – my senior year of high school. After that I left for college and my parents later moved to Lake Tahoe while I was on my LDS mission. But Molokai will always a hold a special place in my soul. And Harrison Ford will always have a string of blockbuster hits to distract us from Hollywood Homicide.

Zuma Beach. It Has a Nice Ring to It.

I need your help. About 72 hours ago, I lost my wedding ring.

We Craigs took to Southern California this last week. We visited family and friends and celebrated the fact that we weren’t melting on the surface of the sun (otherwise known as our home town of Las Vegas). And a particular highlight for me was our visit to Zuma Beach.

Zuma Beach, just north of Malibu, was the Mecca of my youth. From my earliest childhood memories to the social gatherings of my adolescence, from family “beach days” to dates and church activities, a single day at Zuma felt like an entire summer itself. We’d arrive at the beach, lay out the beach blankets and towels, and then get out the food as if we were going to have lunch first; only to be overcome by the exhilaration of that huge ocean, and go running headfirst into a wave. Then, an hour later, waterlogged and with clear sinuses from the salt water, we’d drag ourselves onto the sand and eat like it was the first meal we’d been given since floating to shore from a deserted island. We’d bury ourselves in the sand, throw a Frisbee around, dig for sand crabs, build sandcastles, and wish we never had to go home.

I hadn't been in years, and I was thrilled to take my family there again, building up in my mind the hope of something that could never be accomplished – creating for them, in a single afternoon, the same love and warmth and fondness for this coastline that I held in my own heart.

My children did not disappoint as they seemed to inhale the atmosphere of this hallowed shore; building forts in the sand, boogie boarding, asking if we could live on the beach forever.

I eventually headed into some deep water by myself and was enjoying the nostalgia. Then, to my delight, Katie actually came out into the water to join me. It was probably the first time we had frolicked like that since our honeymoon in Hawaii. I was showing her how to finesse her way around the waves – jumping over them or diving under them, depending on where they were breaking. She asked me to show her how to boogie board. And then…as if heaven were shining down on us…three dolphins swam by, just on the other side of the waves. I’m not kidding. And it was pretty awesome. It was just about as perfect as it could have been – out in the water with the love of my life, playing in the waves of the beach that held so much history for me…

…and then I looked down at my hand.

And I just stared at it.

I was in complete denial. What had happened was clear, but my brain was just not letting it pass the visual of looking at my naked hand. It was as if my brain was telling itself, “Stare harder, and that will bring the ring back.” Or as if somehow, if I looked at my hand long enough, it would provide a clue as to where the ring might be.

I looked up at Katie. “I lost my wedding ring.”

She looked back at me, same expression I had. Kind of a lost, surreal look.

And then I actually started looking at the water around me, trying to see all the way to the sand. I started turning around and looking. Then the more I looked around me, the more I realized how large this body of water was – even just the water around me – and that there was no way I was going to locate it.

I had no idea when it had fallen off. How far the current had already carried it away. If it had gone out to sea or was buried in the sand.

It was gone.

Abbie, not knowing what had just happened, snapped this photo from shore. 

And I was horribly sad. But I was…something else, too. I’m not sure exactly what I was feeling.

On the one hand, it’s a piece of jewelry. On the other hand, it was almost an appendage. I looked at that ring everyday and remembered the day, almost 17 years ago, when Katie gave it to me. I’ve been conscious of it every day for 17 years, and thought about the feelings it brought me when Katie put it on my finger in the Salt Lake Temple.

Nothing has changed. No covenants, no love, no health, nothing has altered all the good stuff. Life is no different. But my wedding ring is gone.

Notice the beautiful, shiny ring on my hand. 

Can anybody more accurately articulate for me this bizarre feeling? 

Ahh, Summer.

Let me ask you, is there anything better then being in the sun with a clean body of water to cool off in?  I mean really, what is better?  I do love the Spring, when the whole world has been dead and then it slowly wakes and you remember things like: Flowers, Kindness, and Dirt. I also love that first good snow, and it means the Holidays are coming and you remember things like: Fire Places, Seeing your Breath, and Warm Woolen Mittens.  And then in the Fall, that first cold snap and you finally get to pull out your sweaters from under the bed and you get to remember things like: Red and Gold and Purple.  But the Summer... even now Josh is up at a Lake reading book after book like a chain smoker lights her cigarettes, Chris is off exploring streets in London that he hasn't found yet, Ken is waxing one thing or another, and I? Well,  I've been watching The Wonder Years on Netflix. I started with Season 1 Episode 1 and I love it! Winnie Cooper, Fred Savage and the kid that my brothers all told me I looked like during my teenage years:

(I did not wear glasses...however, even I can see a resemblance. )

So, I love it. I love how in most sitcoms that revolve around School, the summer gets cut out; that's of course because the series airs during the school year and takes the summers off, but not The Wonder Years. Each season (and I've made it through four) they pay the correct homage to the Summer months filled with all the lazy days, odd jobs you end up doing, the distance that grows between you and your school friends, and how close you get to the kids on your street. Was there ever a better time in life than Summer Vacation when you were young?

My wife is a Summer Girl. She was born in early August, which sealed her fate.  She was a lifeguard and a diver when she as a teen. She was blonde and tan from May to October only because that is what the sun did to her, it took all her translucence of winter and made her glow. Her favorite holiday is still the 4th of July, though she still finds Christmas a reasonably enjoyable day, and she loves rodeos and fireworks.  There is this scene in Brokeback Mountain (which I'm sure you haven't seen because it's gay) where The Joker goes with his wife, the girl with short hair, to watch the fireworks, and the sky is so big and full of light and the crowd seems so small sitting on the yellow grass, their necks stretched fully to take it all in, and I imagine that's what the inside of my wife looks like.  Like Summer. She wrote about it here  she is an amazing and talented writer so I hope you click over and read it. She is a Doctor after all and you feel fine about reading posts written by five dopy dads, so go on, give it a shot... Here's that link again:

Summer Swan Song

Happy Summer.