I guess I am a few days behind on this one, aren't I? Seeing as how Autumn started FOUR DAYS AGO. Oh well, we will just chalk it up to wanting to be sure I encompassed the entire summer.
There are so many ways to look at this. As a child I was outdoors, running and playing in the creek. I remember we even found crawdads in there one time. Back when I was young we weren't allowed to stay inside during school break- back then my parents brought home two baby goats that we bottle-raised and, eventually, had to milk daily. But milking was an all-year long thing, so that isn't what comes to mind for me when I think summer. Though how nasty their milk was on my Wheaties in the morning after they got into my mother's herb garden- whew, that was totally a summer experience. Yuck.
Summer. The pine trees got so warm that the scent of pine sap filled the air. Oh, how I loved it. I grew up in Eastern Washington State and the trees were everywhere- Douglas and Grand Firs, Ponderosa, Western White and Lodgepole Pine. Quaking Aspens were scattered about the forests and the sound the wind made as it whipped through the limbs, leaves and needles- the entire wood seemed alive and talking. I've loved the wind ever since because it would give the trees a voice, and the sound of trees in the wind never fails to thrill and somehow send me back to my younger self.
Summer was a time for waking up, wishing and hoping that maybe today would be the day that we would take a half hour drive to the Columbia River, where a lazy little inlet at Gifford called Cloverleaf Beach waited to cool us off. I learned how to float there, with my father holding me until I had mastered the trick. Of course this same man also tossed me from the boat pier to teach me to swim better, so it wasn't always the most relaxing experience. Still, swimming is something I love to do, thanks to those hot summer days way back when.
Floating in an inner tube, the thrill the first time I was able to swim out to the dock, or my brother and I walking around the inlet to the sand hill on the other side. Watching the braver kids and adults try walking across the logs chained together to prevent boats from the swimming area. How fun it was to see them trying to balance on logs that threatened to roll, but only partially could because of the chains holding them. My skin would slowly turn pink, then red as the afternoon stretched into twilight and time to head home. My tangled, wet, fishy-smelling long hair finally dry by the time we pulled into the driveway.
The time we had a family reunion with tents and a fire in the back yard- cooking hot dogs and melting marshmallows. I hated the taste of marshmallow back then, so I would set mine aflame, blow it out and then peel off its blackened shell only to shove the exposed white interior back into the flames. Over and over until there was nothing left but a tiny crunch of black sugary crust left on the end of my willow stick.
I'm sure the marshmallows left within the bag shivered every time I reached within to select the next victim for immolation.
The time I found a garden snake that someone had driven over. I kept him in a jar with some long grasses and bugs, hoping he would recover. I went for a walk with a "friend" to release him back into the wild later only to have them pull it out by the end of its tail, whirl it around and around like it was a yoyo going "around the world" and then letting it go flying through the air before us only to smack into the pavement a dozen or more feet ahead.
Yeah, I didn't speak to that person again for a very long time. After all these years (40+) I can still recall the horror I felt for that poor snake whizzing through the air around that little schmuck, but the details have faded enough that I now can't even remember the schmuck's name. Still, I fully expect they will be greeted at the gates of St. Peter by that little green form, expecting a sincere apology before they will grant the forgiveness that will allow that snake killer into their Eternal rest.
As I grew into a young woman, summers included a trip to Girl's Camp. The nights out there were so cold, as my best friend and I would usually double our sleeping bags, but she'd wind up with both at some point. I didn't mind that so much, as I would lay there and just listen to the sound of the woods at night... little paws creeping by, the sound of a fallen nut shell on the roof of the tent as the howl of coyotes sounded from a safe distance. Then the birds slowly waking up... one or two chirps at first until the entire woods came alive with them. I used to wonder how my fellow campers could sleep through it all.
In the 6th grade I finally got a horse for my very own. The devastation I felt when I got a failing grade in math (always my worst subject). I was banned from riding that summer as a result, though my parents (thankfully) lifted it before the summer ended so "the horse could get some exercise".
I have a suspicion that what mom really meant was she was sick and tired of me indoors with my nose in a book all of the time. I was, and am, a voracious reader, I get so absorbed in what I am reading that the rest of the world just falls away- including my mother's voice asking me for the umpteenth time to please go wash the dishes or sweep the floor.
What a pain she was. Oh, the horse, not my mother. Sorry, distracted by the side note of that previous paragraph. For my horse's original owners, at a word she would square up her feet and stand, waiting for them to run up and jump on board. For me she would run and run and run from one side of the pasture to another. I could say (and finally shout, then cry) that stupid command until I was blue in the face and it didn't matter one bit. I could have been speaking Klingon for all she cared. Finally my brother would be pulled from his computer to go out and help me corner her. We would finally catch hold of her bridle and she would stop her darting about and I'd swear that mare would then give me a look that said, "serves you right, making me carry your fat butt all over the place". And it was true, I was pretty overweight, and she always let out a grunt when I'd mount her, as if I was knocking all of the air out of her, though she had no problem letting two of my friends on at the same time with no complaints at all!
She was a beautiful pain in the ass, but I loved her anyway. At least, when I wasn't crying and cursing for her to stop running and let me get the lead on her bridle. At those moments my body was wracked with a horrible feeling of "my horse hates me", which was pretty demoralizing. Growing up I read book like My Friend Flicka, the Black Stallion series (though the books on Flame, the Island Stallion were far better) and all of the Misty of Chincoteague books. I wanted a horse that loved me back. I never got that from Shawnee, but at least my goat loved me.
My first memories of living in the country was when I was in the second grade, and we moved from a small town to the wilderness. Our first "country house" was a rental that faced a busy dirt road, with the main paved road running alongside, on the other side of the creek. I guess our proximity to both roads, and the fact that lots of cats could be seen around our place made it just an easy decision for people to add "just one or two more" to the mix as cats were frequently dumped off at our door. There were always cats around, and we had oodles of them to play with, though they were to stay outdoors, and they preferred it. The few I tried sneaking in were terrified at the idea of the four walls of my bedroom around them, so I always "snuck" them (struggling to break free the whole time) back outside. I'm pretty sure my mother knew exactly what I was doing too.
Most of the cats were good at sleeping in the barn at night or the old icehouse to be safe, though we did lose some to coyotes, but we lost more of them to that darn dirt road, as we lived between a bend and the hill that took you up to the paved main road. People would zoom up and down that dirt road, and cats in the way be damned. I remember several funerals for those poor things. One orange tabby I didn't particularly like, though I can't remember for the life of me why I never really petted him. Well, he was a sacrifice to the dirt road, and, in shame, I remember asking Dad to wait, running to my room and writing a quick note to bury with poor Tom. If memory serves, it simply read, "Dear God, Please take good care of Tom. He is a very good cat."
Did I feel bad for lying to God? Well, yes. Honestly, he probably was a very good cat, but we had so many that, naturally I would pet my favorites and I can't recall Tom ever being interested in wanted to be touched. Still, aloof or not, I wanted so badly to be sure that he got into Heaven that I was willing to lie to God in order to assure it would happen. I knew I wasn't really kidding anyone, God knows everything, right? But I really did feel sorry for that cat... and I still do. No person or creature should ever go through life feeling unloved or unwanted.
The summers of my childhood were long days, filled with the scent of cut grass, and getting yelled at for trying to ride the goats or our big German shepherd/St Bernard mix dog. Jason and I once held a "goat circus" that we were so proud of. We had set up two of Dad's sawhorses and laid 2 x 4 beams across and had ramps leading up and down. We tried to lead the goats up and down with a "goat mash" we made by pulling lilac flowers and leaves and even ripping up some tall grass from the field across the creek, but the goats weren't having it. We tried weeping willow leaves, as they adored those, even jumping on top of unwary guests cars who had parked under the tree. Our company would come out and spot goat hoof prints in the dust on their car as the goats would first hop onto the hood, then onto the car roofs in order to reach the willow leaves.
So, perfect for goat mash, right? Wrong.
In desperation one of us got some bread out of the kitchen (honestly mom, to this day I don't remember if it was Jason or I who went in the house for it, or suggested it in the first place).
The bread was a hit! The goats would follow our little handful of bread chunks up the boards on one side, across the beam and down the other side. TA-DA!
We excitedly called our parents out to witness our circus (and perhaps cough up a few dimes for the entertainment), but mom was mad. We had somehow managed to go through almost all of the bread in the house. Yikes! We were in seriously hot water. My brain ties this incident with the fact that we started getting pb&j sandwiches on plain rice cakes instead of our usual wheat bread, but i'm probably wrong. I do know we started taking rice cake sandwiches in our school lunches for awhile. I actually do like the occasional single rice cake with pb&j, but eating it as a sandwich is just far too messy.
July as a kid living outside of Chewelah Washington meant Chataqua had finally arrived- the local arts and crafts festival is always held the first weekend of the month, and it takes over the downtown park completely, Booth after booth of artists selling paintings, drawings, sewing, ceramics, soaps, jams, workwork (including hair combs, which I have bought several times). There would be a big parade and one of the side streets of the park would be closed as carnival rides and games were set-up. The local firemen would sell flame grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, snowcone stands were scattered about, along with an entire food court on the far side of the park.
For years we held a family reunion during this long weekend, and our family would always lay out our blankets and lawn chairs in the same spot- just beyond the food trucks on the edge of the park where the creek ran by. We would visit, with kids and adults wandering in and out. Sometimes to take a quick nap or to cool off with a walk in the stream, or to grab a cold drink from the cooler we always had. Purchases would be carried over to our spot and left, knowing there was always someone around who would keep an eye on your things for you.
I always remember being fascinated by crafts, but Chataqua was a feast for the eyes, even if you didn't have the ready funds for all of the beautiful (and some completely ridiculous) things you would find. There was free entertainment on the stage nearby, which we could hear pretty well from our usual spot. For a few years my aunt and uncle's band would have the closing spot for the evening, doing 70's and 80's covers with a fun flair. They were always a hit at the festival and I loved watching them, as they normally performed in bars, which I was far too young to go into. I haven't been to Chataqua for over a decade now, and I'd love to go back and visit one again. Not just for the nostalgia, but because it really is a lot of fun. I'm a sucker for a good arts and crafts fair, and I lay that firmly at the feet of my parents for taking us to things like Chataqua and barter fairs.
Barter fairs....should I even get into those? I only remember two of them, but they were memorable. For the uninitiated, the barter fairs we attended were definitely hippy based. You'd have a bunch of people show up to some meadow along a dirt road somewhere where they would set up all of things they no longer wanted. Sure, some things you paid for, but basically it was a barter and trade set-up. A what-do-you-have-worth-trading-for-what-i've-got scenario. Both fairs held nudist sunbathers (men and women), which is fine, because I just wouldn't look that way once I knew where they were. To each their own, I guess. I may feel fine about my body and all, but that doesn't mean I want it out on full display for all to see. Its not that I don't subscribe to the "all bodies are beautiful in their own ways" way of thinking, because I do. I just don't think I have to show it off to the world, for ridicule, admiration or indifference.
Dad shared a memory about one of these, that explains a few things as well for me. I believe this happened at the last barter fair Jason and I attended, which was up by the Canadian border. I remember mom casually mentioning "oh yeah, Canada is just over those mountains" and me staring, awestruck, that I was so close to another country. (I should probably mention where I grew up was only a couple of hours from the Canadian border, but there wasn't any towns to drive to there. The closest was still a good hour north it seemed after you crossed). Anyway, I remember Jason and I staring at the pictures on the side of a guy's caravan. Turns out he was a do-it-yourself tattoo artist. The only thing we found interesting was one he had of Garfield, but we were like, "awww, man. Why is Garfield smoking?" (Adult interruption, I now know that it was an extremely large doobie in his mouth and not just a fat cigarette). Luckily I was just a kid, because I really wanted to ask the guy if he could do a Garfield without the "cigarette". I can only imagine how something done in an open field, where he was probably smoking himself (a lot of people were) would have turned out. I can guess he wouldn't be changing needles between clients, as AIDS wasn't a thing yet, and besides... GARFIELD??? My young idiot self would have been tooting around with GARFIELD on my fat little arm?
As a kid, we are idiots. Though, as adults, sometimes we still are. I have seen how tattoos fade and spread during my time as a caregiver. A tattoo you once loved as a piece of art will eventually wind up hanging in the bargain basement once it ages and your skin begins to age and sag. And I barely liked Garfield back then. I am not anti-tattoo-- you want them, go get them. Goodness knows I am tempted every now and again to get one, but I have managed to avoid the seductive pull. My tastes and interests change all of the time- I love crows, but those do NOT age well- I love squid and octopi, but those are usually sensualized for some reason. My favorite flowers have even adapted over the years, although I still adore the humble Cornflower or, as its more commonly known, the Bachelors Button. Still, I don't need those and a couple of dragonflies slapped onto my shoulder.
But I digress, as that's not the memory Dad shared with me. Jason was always better at saving his money and earning it as well. His grades were far better than mine, for which there was a difference in parental payout. He also didn't have a serious fixation on a long-running book series to purchase whenever I had the money. No, Jason at the time was in love with Narnia- 7 books in one cool holder at a decent price. Me, (while I also love Narnia), not only was trying to collect all 34 (at the time) Trixie Belden books, but also various horse series as well. For a while I snagged some of my mother's apple crates when she weaned down her Mother Earth News magazine collection and stacked them up into a bookshelf for my ever-growing library. (and, I am proud to point out, I still own most of those books I bought back then- though some have had to have replacements purchased in place of my most worn-out ones).
No, the fact is that Jason was walking around with money in his pocket just looking to be spent. I looked through a ton of books, and I am pretty sure I went home with a couple, but Jason bought himself a monster-sized Space Cookie that he wasn't about to share with me. Dad caught him with it before he had eaten much of it though and asked where he had purchased it. Jason dutifully said he bought it at the Space Cookie stand and pointed out where the guy had set up shop.
Why this idiot sold a marijuana cookie to a kid is beyond me, but Jason lost that $1 worth of tastiness when Dad took it away from him and we started packing up to go home.
Dad says he doesn't remember Jason acting any differently on the long drive home, so he probably didn't get much- heck, the guy could have been really sparing with his weed when he baked the things- who knows. But I don't remember us being allowed to attend a barter fair after that. I remember a Rendezvous-in-the-Park held up in Colville, with a lot of burly guys dressed in buckskins and wearing fur hats walking around with muskets on their shoulders and hatchets swinging from their belts, but I don't remember much else about it.
After that either my parents went along or stopped attending altogether, I'm not sure. As fun as those days of my youth were, I don't think I would want to go back again as an adult to them- well, except for Chataqua. I could use a new hand-carved hair comb, and I'd love to get a kiln-fired ceramic strainer to hold fruit on my counter and look adorable.
Guess I will just have to find an arts and crafts festival here in New Mexico or start making my way through the goods on Etsy, but its not the same thing as that thrill of wandering booth to booth on a hot summers day, seeing the potter whose booth I used to love visiting set up where they always were-just a step away from the cool, shallow creek so you could step into it for a moment, take a break from the heat, and yet still admire all of the hard work they had done that year before deciding on a piece you just had to take home with you. All the while the sun would be on your back, and the sounds of the carnival less than a hundred feet away on the other side of the creek sounded against whatever act was performing on the stage less than a hundred feet in the other direction of you. In harmony with all of that you add the chatter of tourists and locals wandering past, the kids screaming and playing either in the carnival itself, on the playground equipment or in the creek, and the voices of the artisans themselves as they answered questions about their crafts.
For a girl who hates crowds and loud noises, Chataqua is a place that will always hold fond memories for me.
Summer was mostly for those long, lazy days where, after the raspberries had been picked, gardening chores done, goats milked and eggs gathered, so snatch up a book and read. I would usually try reading in my room, where it was cooler and definitely less bugs, but at some point mom would kick me out of the house to get some fresh air and natural Vitamin D. She didn't mind me reading as long as it was outdoors and we weren't underfoot, so i'd either flop down on the lawn right onto the grass, or I would drag a blanket out with me to lay on.
Not that I'd be alone for long- by the time I turned 12 I had a new baby brother, and by 13 he was toddling around in the yard. His favorite was to grab onto our dog's tail and go flying as Grizzily wagged it. You have to remember, he was a German Shepherd Saint Bernard mix, so he was BIG, and he was a very SOLID and muscular dog. But he was also the sweetest thing ever. He was so patient with Yancy. Yancy would always get back up, laughing and babbling away to himself and then get back to the dog to grab his tail all over again. Griz would promptly start wagging it, and Yancy would go tumbling again. Over and over.
It was adorable.
By the time my first sister arrived I was 16, and far more into reading than ever. Mom almost had to physically shove to get me outdoors and pry books from my hands. I doubt I was ever far from a book by then, unless I was riding. Goodness knows my backpack during school season always sported a few- just in case I finished one I HAD to have a backup (thank goodness for ebooks now), I even hauled a book or two along each year for Girls Camp, though I'd never find the time to read them (I think mom may have even tossed some out of my bag before I left, because I do remember at least one year finding some free time on my hands and not seeing a book in my pack).
I lost my 3rd brother in the summer as he was stillborn, and I was nearly 21 when my last sister arrived. By then I was working and summers were just the season when you rolled down the car windows on your way to work because the AC didn't always work.
I've lost my connection with summer itself as i've grown up. It became that season where it stayed light longer, which was great as for years I worked massively long hours.
I stopped swimming, until a few years ago when I started going to the pool, which I need to take up again now that we've moved. When I became disabled 5 or 6 years ago and was always home, summer became just another day I stayed indoors and sweated like crazy because we didn't have AC, or the ones we'd buy were inadequate for our apartment.
And 2022? Well, this summer saw us moving into a home. It has Central Air, which the cats and I are grateful for, but it also means that I don't pay much attention to how hot it gets here in NM, because we've enjoyed a nice 76 degrees inside. I did plant some succulents in our planter box out front, and help clean up out front (supervised it anyway), but I look forward to starting a garden next year. The flower bed up front is close to being ready to plant some bulbs for us to enjoy next summer, but I admit that I wasted the start of the summer being miserable and depressed in our small apartment (one of our elderly cats passed and I just wasn't handling things well). The rest I've spent unpacking things here so I haven't spent much time outside.
That needs to change. The longer we have been here, the more I am slowly able to do- I now cook and bake (something unthinkable for me to do earlier this year). I also sweep, mop and keep the kitchen clean. At this rate, by next summer, I hope to be able to not only be keeping more of the house up, but to be able to walk outside and (fingers crossed) not only cross the street to collect the mail, but to start taking my crafts outdoors. Sit in the shade and get some stitching or knitting done, or to at least head into the garage and do some clay work, as its pretty messy to try and do indoors, but would dry out too quickly in the sun. I also want to learn to dye my own fibers, which can also be better done outdoors.
I want my own personal arts and crafts out in the beauty of nature, and it may sound silly to say this, but its going to be more fun because I own the nature that I am doing it in. No more worrying that some kid or dog from another apartment will fiddle with or run off with stuff I leave outside (which has happened) or accidently knock something over and break it (which has also happened) or have a landlord point out that, no, I cannot do such and such project on my patio as it makes things look untidy.
Am I just blowing smoke in my own eyes? I don't know. I recently started cross stitching again after a long time away (though I have to find the box with all of my threads in it now that we've moved), and I started knitting again, so, yes, I do think I will be doing more and more with my time out of doors. I also just started taking photos again with my Nikon, rather than with my camera phone. I loved going out and taking photos in nature all of the time, and I was pretty good at it. I need to get back into the habit of getting out in our yard or ask Richard to drive us around the area so I can get back into the swing of photography, as i've missed it very much.
I guess I will have to revisit this post next summer and give you all an update. Until then, at least I have all of the good memories of summers past to tide me over- and to motivate me into getting back in touch with the fun that summer can actually be.
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