Someone somewhere in summertime...
It's officially summer. Style Council is in the car tape deck, New Gold Dream is in the stereo in the house, and the evenings are full of burnished gold air and skies the color of iolite and the green of growth, so intense it hurts. And I'm filled with the distinctive mix of calm joy and aching nostalgia that only summer evenings cause.
Sitting under the elder tree at the spot where the yards met, perfectly shaded in a patch of cool thick grass, contemplating the quiet aliveness of a summer afternoon. Shouting, wordlessly, happily, and hearing the echo of my voice off the roof of the church across the street--and doing it again, just to hear it again.
The Oregon coast, wide soft stretches of sand gently polished by the surf, turning up stones and carrying them eagerly to my grandmother to see if they were the agates she so treasured. A green glass float, carried practically to my feet by a wave, as if the Pacific wished to give me a gift. Breakfast in the restaurant above the water, morning fog too thick to see the surfline, begging for a chance to run into it and see if it was as soft and caressing as it looked through the windows (it wasn't, but nevermind).
Nevada desert thunderstorms, roaring out of the sky like dragons, cracking the air wide open with power and sound, followed by the soft caressing patter of rain and the smell of ozone, the most hopeful scent in the world.
Lake Tahoe, the smell of ponderosa pines in the sun as we trudged to the shore with our chairs and cooler, then bursting out of the treeline to the gleaming pearl and sapphire of the beach. Tiny fish in the water, trying over again and endlessly to capture them, just one, in my bucket, swirling in circles in the water. The taste of a sun-warmed sandwich, dusted with grit from my sand-coated fingers, and still-cool green grapes, crisp and snapping as I bit into them, like the sensation of cold captured in perfect tiny spheres.
Virginia City, the anticipation coming up the curve of the mountain in the shimmering heat, stepping out of the car to sun too bright to stand and too welcoming to avoid, the streets dusty and strangely quiet no matter how many tourists were there, and the sensation that the ghosts were simply waiting patiently for us all to go away so they could come out.
Riding my bike along the Burke-Gilman trail, even before it was a trail, pedaling over the gravel left from the railroad bed with little concern for the energy it took, sailing through clouds of gnats in the evening air and fruitlessly swatting them away. Picking morning glories to twine in my hair and around my bike basket, and watching them slowly close as I rode back home in the dusk.
Sunday afternoons at the Sand Point pool, the smell of chlorine and the sound of feet pattering on the concrete, swimming to exhaustion, Marco Polo and water tag and seeing how deep I could go, diving over and over and over again knowing that people would watch the perfect arc of my perfect form and loving the sensation of the board springing out from under my feet, the curve of my spine and the soft rush of the controlled fall to be enveloped by the water. Climbing out, reluctantly, only when the lifeguards forced it, and retreating to the snack bar, to have fat fluffy fries straight out of the fryer, too hot to touch, drizzled with ketchup the counterboys kept in the refrigerator for just that purpose.
Blackberry brambles, crowding and choking the paths on the hill, with goldenrod poking up in soft plumes to be picked and twisted into bracelets while strolling the paths, deciding where to start picking. Berries warm with the sun, crunchy from dirt and tiny insects, eaten straight off the vine with no care for the contamination, sweeter than any treat the ice-cream man could serve up except when they weren't and the sourness bit at the tongue like tiny fangs, picking and eating till fingertips were stained purple with juice and dirt and the sweetness overwhelmed all else.
Camp on the Peninsula, a single-night campout away from our cabins on the top of a huge flat-topped rock jutting into the water. Waking just after sunrise, cold and yet strangely cozy in my sleeping bag, watching the early morning sea wind rustle the grasses and listening to the surf, and realizing that I was mere feet from the edge of the cliff and might have rolled off in my sleep, yet not disturbed by the thought.
Dusk in DC, the beginning of relief from the stifling soggy daytime heat, wandering among the brick buildings of our complex, stopping at the honeysuckle and gently plucking the tiny trumpet blossoms to suck the delicate nectar while watching the fireflies fade and shine and circle and swirl in the darkening air.
Lying in the hammock on the balcony, watching the Soviet tankers churn the perfect blue of the Bosporus and feeling the rumble of their engines, contemplating the people on those ships and what they were like and if they ever had fun, and whether I'd ever know anything about them. Rousing myself from the laziness to tramp down the cobblestones to the market and buy a melon, the greengrocer smiling indulgently at this little blond Western girl who knew only enough Turkish to say "please" and "thank you" but was big enough to carry a watermelon back up the hill by herself. Stopping on the way back by the wisteria arbor, to marvel at the perfect balance and perfect purple of the dangling blossoms, until the rumble of another tanker reminded me where I was.
Going to the Black Sea, the long drive through the fairytale prettiness and wildness of Belgrade Forest, with the reward at the end the glorious stretch of beach and water and the whole day to spend in it. Bodysurfing in the dark water, riding waves far too large for such a little wiry girl, learning how to skirt the edge of the undertow, making sandcastles and mud sculptures when the pounding waves overmatched my childhood energy, then returning to the water with ferocity when I'd recovered. Riding back home through the fairytale forest, dozing, skin glowing with sunburn, every muscle throbbing with the dull gentle buzz of complete and perfect exhaustion.
Another part of the Black Sea, sitting on the honey-polished wood of the vintage boat in the honey-colored sunshine, staring over the railing at the black water below, criss-crossed with countless small pulsing jellyfish, their transparent bodies marked on the inside with small X shapes that stretched and contracted as they swam, the pattern of their movement and endless numbers inducing a mindless, timeless state like some sort of midafternoon meditation.
Evening runs taken around the manmade lake in our condo complex, after the Georgia heat had cooled enough to make the humidity bearable, stopping on the far side where hardly anyone ever came to sit on the small flat rock and listen to the silence in the midst of a busy city, and hope fearfully for a glimpse of the water moccasin said to live under the very rock I sat on (it never appeared, if indeed it even existed).
Bicycle rides through the flat, quiet cul-de-sacs in the dusk, Kate and I going in soft lazy circles around and between each other in a teenage version of infinity loops for nothing besides the pleasure of the motion and the wind in our hair. Walking to the mini-mart through grass taller than we were, ears buzzing with the noise of grasshoppers and beetles all around us, shaking the stalks to watch the 'hoppers fly away in brutal Texas sun and stop just far enough ahead of us for us to scare them up again.
Judy's father's ranch, playing in the shaded creek with the dogs while the sun was high, coming back to the house to dry off for barbecue and potato salad, then rides in the lengthening sun through the vineyards in the back of a pickup with the dogs, trading shy grins and awkward touches of fingers as he showed me how to squeeze the pulp from muscat grapes without eating the skin, and the slight stinging bitterness of the skins on my lips nonetheless, a substitute for the kisses I was too bashful to ask him for.
A warm long night, dinner and a late movie not enough for us, so we drove to Lake Belton and sat on the dock in the darkness, listening to the water lap at the pilings, talking of things that I knew better than to talk with him about and never certain if he would take me seriously or not, until the tension became too much and he told me had to take me home before something wrong happened.
Long, long, long summer nights, alone with my depression and my thoughts and the stars and Roxy Music's Avalon, writing and dreaming and fearing and hurting and hoping, until I greeted the first soft pinks and golds of dawn with Duran Duran's "Like An Angel," a song that might have been just for me, then taking to my bed before anyone else could come along and wrench me back into a reality that was worse than the darkness inside my own head.
Walking towards the glow of the ballfield in the dark, knowing we'd already missed the first two innings, and suddenly stopping where I was to spin in a circle, my face turned up to the stars that sparkled like crystal even against the blaze of the park lights, until I became too dizzy to stand and threw myself into the grass, breathing in the last of its daytime warmth and much too happy in the completeness of the moment to put it into words, while he just stood and smiled, bemused and uncertain and faintly embarassed by me.
Sitting on the screened-in porch at the back of the house, trying to read in the cooling late-afternoon air but constantly distracted by the burble of the creek and the jays and squirrels in the trees, catching a glimpse of movement in the grass out of the corner of my eye and looking up to see a small brown rabbit loping slowly and softly across the yard, utterly unconcerned at my presence even when I sat up and closed the book to watch it make its way across and into the trees and out of my sight.
Seagrass and sand and the weathered-soft shingles of the beach houses in Sandbridge, bobbing in the water in a soft afternoon rainstorm to watch a pod of Atlantic dolphins gambol by yards from the shore, walking in the surf just before the sun went down and returning to the house to sit on the deck and look up at the stars before tucking myself into bed with a candle and a book and the sound of the waves, away from home all on my own for the first time ever and incredibly happy.
An uncommonly sweltering Sunday afternoon, coming home after a morning of family obligation in silk dress and suit and tie, stripping to underwear to sit in bed with the fan and the paper and nothing else in the world to worry about.
Abruptly deciding to drive to Olympia, just because, stopping for comics and drinks and at the store where he'd once worked, talking about nothing special and everything important as we tried to get to know each other and figure out just what exactly we had gotten ourselves into.
A rooftop, a song I love, the full moon over Beacon Hill, my first time watching someone I was just starting to know make fire dance, and the feeling that at that moment I belonged, completely and absolutely and with perfect harmony, exactly where I was.
A blistering July day, a bluff overlooking the Columbia, the sweep and majesty of what the river had carved in time and force that would never be within my understanding, and the feeling of the sun burning away the self-pity I had encased myself in, till my mind and heart felt as broad and scoured clean as the rocks the river ran through.
And for six summers now, just a turn away from my desk, the sight of a lake, water mirroring sky and dotted with sails in daytime, glass-smooth quiet and jeweled with lights at night, as surely home as anything has ever been.
I had a lot of plans for tonight. Writing this was better than any of them.
Sitting under the elder tree at the spot where the yards met, perfectly shaded in a patch of cool thick grass, contemplating the quiet aliveness of a summer afternoon. Shouting, wordlessly, happily, and hearing the echo of my voice off the roof of the church across the street--and doing it again, just to hear it again.
The Oregon coast, wide soft stretches of sand gently polished by the surf, turning up stones and carrying them eagerly to my grandmother to see if they were the agates she so treasured. A green glass float, carried practically to my feet by a wave, as if the Pacific wished to give me a gift. Breakfast in the restaurant above the water, morning fog too thick to see the surfline, begging for a chance to run into it and see if it was as soft and caressing as it looked through the windows (it wasn't, but nevermind).
Nevada desert thunderstorms, roaring out of the sky like dragons, cracking the air wide open with power and sound, followed by the soft caressing patter of rain and the smell of ozone, the most hopeful scent in the world.
Lake Tahoe, the smell of ponderosa pines in the sun as we trudged to the shore with our chairs and cooler, then bursting out of the treeline to the gleaming pearl and sapphire of the beach. Tiny fish in the water, trying over again and endlessly to capture them, just one, in my bucket, swirling in circles in the water. The taste of a sun-warmed sandwich, dusted with grit from my sand-coated fingers, and still-cool green grapes, crisp and snapping as I bit into them, like the sensation of cold captured in perfect tiny spheres.
Virginia City, the anticipation coming up the curve of the mountain in the shimmering heat, stepping out of the car to sun too bright to stand and too welcoming to avoid, the streets dusty and strangely quiet no matter how many tourists were there, and the sensation that the ghosts were simply waiting patiently for us all to go away so they could come out.
Riding my bike along the Burke-Gilman trail, even before it was a trail, pedaling over the gravel left from the railroad bed with little concern for the energy it took, sailing through clouds of gnats in the evening air and fruitlessly swatting them away. Picking morning glories to twine in my hair and around my bike basket, and watching them slowly close as I rode back home in the dusk.
Sunday afternoons at the Sand Point pool, the smell of chlorine and the sound of feet pattering on the concrete, swimming to exhaustion, Marco Polo and water tag and seeing how deep I could go, diving over and over and over again knowing that people would watch the perfect arc of my perfect form and loving the sensation of the board springing out from under my feet, the curve of my spine and the soft rush of the controlled fall to be enveloped by the water. Climbing out, reluctantly, only when the lifeguards forced it, and retreating to the snack bar, to have fat fluffy fries straight out of the fryer, too hot to touch, drizzled with ketchup the counterboys kept in the refrigerator for just that purpose.
Blackberry brambles, crowding and choking the paths on the hill, with goldenrod poking up in soft plumes to be picked and twisted into bracelets while strolling the paths, deciding where to start picking. Berries warm with the sun, crunchy from dirt and tiny insects, eaten straight off the vine with no care for the contamination, sweeter than any treat the ice-cream man could serve up except when they weren't and the sourness bit at the tongue like tiny fangs, picking and eating till fingertips were stained purple with juice and dirt and the sweetness overwhelmed all else.
Camp on the Peninsula, a single-night campout away from our cabins on the top of a huge flat-topped rock jutting into the water. Waking just after sunrise, cold and yet strangely cozy in my sleeping bag, watching the early morning sea wind rustle the grasses and listening to the surf, and realizing that I was mere feet from the edge of the cliff and might have rolled off in my sleep, yet not disturbed by the thought.
Dusk in DC, the beginning of relief from the stifling soggy daytime heat, wandering among the brick buildings of our complex, stopping at the honeysuckle and gently plucking the tiny trumpet blossoms to suck the delicate nectar while watching the fireflies fade and shine and circle and swirl in the darkening air.
Lying in the hammock on the balcony, watching the Soviet tankers churn the perfect blue of the Bosporus and feeling the rumble of their engines, contemplating the people on those ships and what they were like and if they ever had fun, and whether I'd ever know anything about them. Rousing myself from the laziness to tramp down the cobblestones to the market and buy a melon, the greengrocer smiling indulgently at this little blond Western girl who knew only enough Turkish to say "please" and "thank you" but was big enough to carry a watermelon back up the hill by herself. Stopping on the way back by the wisteria arbor, to marvel at the perfect balance and perfect purple of the dangling blossoms, until the rumble of another tanker reminded me where I was.
Going to the Black Sea, the long drive through the fairytale prettiness and wildness of Belgrade Forest, with the reward at the end the glorious stretch of beach and water and the whole day to spend in it. Bodysurfing in the dark water, riding waves far too large for such a little wiry girl, learning how to skirt the edge of the undertow, making sandcastles and mud sculptures when the pounding waves overmatched my childhood energy, then returning to the water with ferocity when I'd recovered. Riding back home through the fairytale forest, dozing, skin glowing with sunburn, every muscle throbbing with the dull gentle buzz of complete and perfect exhaustion.
Another part of the Black Sea, sitting on the honey-polished wood of the vintage boat in the honey-colored sunshine, staring over the railing at the black water below, criss-crossed with countless small pulsing jellyfish, their transparent bodies marked on the inside with small X shapes that stretched and contracted as they swam, the pattern of their movement and endless numbers inducing a mindless, timeless state like some sort of midafternoon meditation.
Evening runs taken around the manmade lake in our condo complex, after the Georgia heat had cooled enough to make the humidity bearable, stopping on the far side where hardly anyone ever came to sit on the small flat rock and listen to the silence in the midst of a busy city, and hope fearfully for a glimpse of the water moccasin said to live under the very rock I sat on (it never appeared, if indeed it even existed).
Bicycle rides through the flat, quiet cul-de-sacs in the dusk, Kate and I going in soft lazy circles around and between each other in a teenage version of infinity loops for nothing besides the pleasure of the motion and the wind in our hair. Walking to the mini-mart through grass taller than we were, ears buzzing with the noise of grasshoppers and beetles all around us, shaking the stalks to watch the 'hoppers fly away in brutal Texas sun and stop just far enough ahead of us for us to scare them up again.
Judy's father's ranch, playing in the shaded creek with the dogs while the sun was high, coming back to the house to dry off for barbecue and potato salad, then rides in the lengthening sun through the vineyards in the back of a pickup with the dogs, trading shy grins and awkward touches of fingers as he showed me how to squeeze the pulp from muscat grapes without eating the skin, and the slight stinging bitterness of the skins on my lips nonetheless, a substitute for the kisses I was too bashful to ask him for.
A warm long night, dinner and a late movie not enough for us, so we drove to Lake Belton and sat on the dock in the darkness, listening to the water lap at the pilings, talking of things that I knew better than to talk with him about and never certain if he would take me seriously or not, until the tension became too much and he told me had to take me home before something wrong happened.
Long, long, long summer nights, alone with my depression and my thoughts and the stars and Roxy Music's Avalon, writing and dreaming and fearing and hurting and hoping, until I greeted the first soft pinks and golds of dawn with Duran Duran's "Like An Angel," a song that might have been just for me, then taking to my bed before anyone else could come along and wrench me back into a reality that was worse than the darkness inside my own head.
Walking towards the glow of the ballfield in the dark, knowing we'd already missed the first two innings, and suddenly stopping where I was to spin in a circle, my face turned up to the stars that sparkled like crystal even against the blaze of the park lights, until I became too dizzy to stand and threw myself into the grass, breathing in the last of its daytime warmth and much too happy in the completeness of the moment to put it into words, while he just stood and smiled, bemused and uncertain and faintly embarassed by me.
Sitting on the screened-in porch at the back of the house, trying to read in the cooling late-afternoon air but constantly distracted by the burble of the creek and the jays and squirrels in the trees, catching a glimpse of movement in the grass out of the corner of my eye and looking up to see a small brown rabbit loping slowly and softly across the yard, utterly unconcerned at my presence even when I sat up and closed the book to watch it make its way across and into the trees and out of my sight.
Seagrass and sand and the weathered-soft shingles of the beach houses in Sandbridge, bobbing in the water in a soft afternoon rainstorm to watch a pod of Atlantic dolphins gambol by yards from the shore, walking in the surf just before the sun went down and returning to the house to sit on the deck and look up at the stars before tucking myself into bed with a candle and a book and the sound of the waves, away from home all on my own for the first time ever and incredibly happy.
An uncommonly sweltering Sunday afternoon, coming home after a morning of family obligation in silk dress and suit and tie, stripping to underwear to sit in bed with the fan and the paper and nothing else in the world to worry about.
Abruptly deciding to drive to Olympia, just because, stopping for comics and drinks and at the store where he'd once worked, talking about nothing special and everything important as we tried to get to know each other and figure out just what exactly we had gotten ourselves into.
A rooftop, a song I love, the full moon over Beacon Hill, my first time watching someone I was just starting to know make fire dance, and the feeling that at that moment I belonged, completely and absolutely and with perfect harmony, exactly where I was.
A blistering July day, a bluff overlooking the Columbia, the sweep and majesty of what the river had carved in time and force that would never be within my understanding, and the feeling of the sun burning away the self-pity I had encased myself in, till my mind and heart felt as broad and scoured clean as the rocks the river ran through.
And for six summers now, just a turn away from my desk, the sight of a lake, water mirroring sky and dotted with sails in daytime, glass-smooth quiet and jeweled with lights at night, as surely home as anything has ever been.
I had a lot of plans for tonight. Writing this was better than any of them.