bleach
In the winter, of course, the sun would always come in at an angle, casting a cooler, sharper light into the barbecue pit and creating the vague impression that the scene was a replica of the original - a sort of sound stage in which the scenery was static and lifeless, and even the beach toys seemed like props.
But in summertime, the light came from absolutely everywhere - the overexposed sky, the fine white sand, the dancing waves on the surface of the lake, the sunbleached concrete and stucco of the surrounding houses and patios. Nothing seemed to cast any shadow whatsoever; even the spiky St. Augustine grass appeared to be lit from within.
Thinking back, I cannot fathom how it was that all of us kids - and a good many of the adults - managed to get along without sunglasses. The afterimage of all that light made the house seem disproportionately oppressive, dark, and heavy - an antsy-making annoyance that plagued midday bathroom or iced-tea runs, but a welcome, anchoring respite at the end of an exhausting day spent spiraling outwardly at the behest of the merciless taskmaster that is a child's summer day.
The lake and its sandy beach were surrounded by an ash-coloured seawall that stood about six inches above the grass. Set into the structure were garden lights housed in typical mid-century-style galvanized and louvered lamps. I loved to power their deep amber bulbs on and off with the center light switch next to the heavy, oaken back door in the Florida room.
The flat concrete just in from the base of the seawall was a perfect staging area for my childhood sand-kitchen creations. As I carefully sculpted mudpies with various improvised implements - including my bare, dirty hands - my perpetual inner monologue would turn to the subject of the pitted wall that framed my culinary masterworks.
Sea wall. Seawall. Sea... wall. I wondered if it was one word, or two. I wondered why it was called a sea wall, when this was not the sea, but rather a small, manmade lake. I wondered if there were any seawalls at the actual sea; if they were made of the same substance; if they had flat bases like this one upon which kids could make cool things out of sand; and why they would be needed at all, when no one would use it to walk along anyway, because you can't walk around the ocean? And if there WERE seawalls at the beach, and if people DID walk along them... why? Why wouldn't they just walk on the sand instead? And if they wanted to take a walk along a seawall, why wouldn't they just choose one that ringed a lake instead, so they could go all the way around, instead of ending up half a mile down from where they started, and have to turn round and walk all the way back again?!
To the casual observer, I looked like any other six-year-old, sitting back on my heels in the powdery sand, singing childhood songs while making mudpie after mudpie. But on the inside, I was ruefully bemoaning the shortsighted inefficiency and wastefulness of hypothetical oceanside seawall engineers.
Between the moments that flood my memory when I close my eyes to the distractions of the present day, came other moments - unpleasant moments that were likely no less formative, no less passionately experienced at the time, but simply less powerful now, in the context of the big picture of my life. Those moments have been bleached out by that same powerful summer sun, year after year, the way a photograph fades in even the indirect light of a shadowy hallway... given enough time.
As the light of day slowly washes out a physical image, so does the light of many days wash out mental images - memories, experiences, emotional intensity. Time is a powerful bleach. The images can be preserved by occasionally going over them with a brush, refreshing the lines and deepening the hues of the details you want to retain.
It's up to you which ones to preserve... and which to allow time to soften and fade.
But in summertime, the light came from absolutely everywhere - the overexposed sky, the fine white sand, the dancing waves on the surface of the lake, the sunbleached concrete and stucco of the surrounding houses and patios. Nothing seemed to cast any shadow whatsoever; even the spiky St. Augustine grass appeared to be lit from within.
Thinking back, I cannot fathom how it was that all of us kids - and a good many of the adults - managed to get along without sunglasses. The afterimage of all that light made the house seem disproportionately oppressive, dark, and heavy - an antsy-making annoyance that plagued midday bathroom or iced-tea runs, but a welcome, anchoring respite at the end of an exhausting day spent spiraling outwardly at the behest of the merciless taskmaster that is a child's summer day.
The lake and its sandy beach were surrounded by an ash-coloured seawall that stood about six inches above the grass. Set into the structure were garden lights housed in typical mid-century-style galvanized and louvered lamps. I loved to power their deep amber bulbs on and off with the center light switch next to the heavy, oaken back door in the Florida room.
The flat concrete just in from the base of the seawall was a perfect staging area for my childhood sand-kitchen creations. As I carefully sculpted mudpies with various improvised implements - including my bare, dirty hands - my perpetual inner monologue would turn to the subject of the pitted wall that framed my culinary masterworks.
Sea wall. Seawall. Sea... wall. I wondered if it was one word, or two. I wondered why it was called a sea wall, when this was not the sea, but rather a small, manmade lake. I wondered if there were any seawalls at the actual sea; if they were made of the same substance; if they had flat bases like this one upon which kids could make cool things out of sand; and why they would be needed at all, when no one would use it to walk along anyway, because you can't walk around the ocean? And if there WERE seawalls at the beach, and if people DID walk along them... why? Why wouldn't they just walk on the sand instead? And if they wanted to take a walk along a seawall, why wouldn't they just choose one that ringed a lake instead, so they could go all the way around, instead of ending up half a mile down from where they started, and have to turn round and walk all the way back again?!
To the casual observer, I looked like any other six-year-old, sitting back on my heels in the powdery sand, singing childhood songs while making mudpie after mudpie. But on the inside, I was ruefully bemoaning the shortsighted inefficiency and wastefulness of hypothetical oceanside seawall engineers.
Between the moments that flood my memory when I close my eyes to the distractions of the present day, came other moments - unpleasant moments that were likely no less formative, no less passionately experienced at the time, but simply less powerful now, in the context of the big picture of my life. Those moments have been bleached out by that same powerful summer sun, year after year, the way a photograph fades in even the indirect light of a shadowy hallway... given enough time.
As the light of day slowly washes out a physical image, so does the light of many days wash out mental images - memories, experiences, emotional intensity. Time is a powerful bleach. The images can be preserved by occasionally going over them with a brush, refreshing the lines and deepening the hues of the details you want to retain.
It's up to you which ones to preserve... and which to allow time to soften and fade.