First, let’s get this out of the way, a small pet-peeve of mine . . . when I tell you we are having a hard time with 98 degrees, I really don’t want to hear how much hotter it is in Texas or Arizona. By and large, people who live in those two states are acclimated to that type of weather. We are not!
Besides, how about just a pinch of empathy and compassion? Just for the hell of it.
There, now I can continue.
During this first full week of July, I am helping out at the Zombie Apocalypse Summer Camp being held at Lost Peacock Creamery. Bev is actually running the show; I’m just teaching one lesson each day and then helping out with supervision.
The camp is fun; the kids (8-12 yr olds) are great; the weather sucks.
And Maggie and Toby are not happy at all! Dog days of summer? Yep, aptly named.
However, rather than make this a session of complaining, I think I will choose to turn on my creative mind and write about summer in Olympia.
Sit back, get comfy, and let’s do this.
You sense it before you realize it in a concrete way. It’s as though someone has poured molasses over the entire area, slowing traffic, slowing joggers, slowing the entire pace of life of over fifty-thousand rain-soaked pilgrims. June came in tentatively, unsure of its next step, toying with the idea of warming up, but not quite certain how to do it Finally, during the final few days of the month, once the final adjustments had been made to Mother Nature’s furnace, the calendar read July, turn the page, and the furnace clicked on, sending a mass of humanity to Home Depot and Lowe’s for fans, air conditioners, and swamp coolers, while others dove headfirst into one of the dozens of lakes or, for the truly hardy, the Puget Sound and its not so inviting forty-eight degree temps.
The sky turned a brilliant blue, the ground turned a drab brown, and steps kicked up dust for the first time in nine months. Dogs established a love affair with the shade of evergreens, cats were nowhere to be seen, and farm animals seemed to cease all movement, perpetually posing for the next student of Monet to capture it all with broad strokes.
This is the time of BBQs and paddleboarding, lazing in a hammock and birdwatching, a time for young lovers loving and old lovers daydreaming, checkers in the park, horseshoes in the backyard, and slip and slides down manicured lawns. Cold beers, cold lemonades, iced teas and sodas on ice, a frantic attempt by the millions to cool the body and refresh the psyches, complaints about the soaring temps spew from the mouths of those who, just months earlier, complained about the rains and swore to their god they would pledge allegiance if only warmer temps were sent their way.
This time of year inevitably reminds me of my childhood, a Courier & Ives neighborhood, familiar faces sitting on front porches, lemonade or cold beer in hand, shouting greetings to passers-by, watching the kids play ball in the street, would-be Major Leaguers in training. The men would gather around grills, telling stories of past exploits, each telling magnifying the deeds a bit larger, while the women fanned themselves, slapped off flies, shouted barely noticed instructions to their children, and administering first-aid when needed. The lawns browned then, as they do now, the children dreamed of great accomplishments, the parents looking on in admiration and with love, hoping for better lives for those children, a step or two higher on the economic ladder for them all, and flags blowing in the breeze, God bless the red, white, and blue.
And so it goes. The date on the calendar is different, the faces not the same, but you can bet your bottom dollar the scenario is a carbon copy across America, the dreams still the same, Our Town running continually off-Broadway this year, and the next, and the next, hot time, summer in the city.
