In my memories, summer moved with a slow surety, a graceful procession
toward autumn that almost stood still. I remember the long summers of my
childhood, sunlit days that stretched between the shores of spring and fall in
what seemed like forever. Picnics in the park, catching lightning bugs after
dark, sliding down sun warmed slides and swinging on chain held swings
creaking as I pumped my legs to make them soar high. Summer meant evenings on
the porch eavesdropping on the adults in the warm darkness, listening and
learning.
Summer meant nights spent with my grandparents on their porch, my
attention caught by their tales of times gone by. We waved at the neighbors,
and if we were lucky, we might get an ice cream cone from one of the
vendors that plied the neighborhoods of my hometown, their music calling kids
from every direction like the Pied Piper.
Somewhere in the middle the Fourth of July loomed like a bright icon and
we anticipated it with eagerness that only kids can have. July 4 in those years
lasted at least a week or so it seemed as we gathered at one relative or
another’s house to shoot fireworks, drink lemonade, and eat fried chicken, hot
dogs, and hamburgers. Several of those Fourth celebrations were held at my Aunt
Janet and Uncle Bill’s house in St. Joseph. As all-American kids, we played
baseball in the neighbors’ big backyard, ate cookies, played hide and go seek,
nibbled on watermelon, and waited for dark when the real fun began.
Even after the Fourth of July came, then went, summer continued like
something out of an enchanted fairy tale. Our school never began until the day
after Labor Day Monday so we had extra weeks and all of August. We went to the
cool, dim branch library, Washington Park, and checked out books, then read
to the soft whir of the fan on hot afternoons or out on the porch.
Sometimes several generations of the family would meet at one of the
largest parks in my hometown for cookouts and barbecue.
On other occasions we had family reunions, some with as many as four and even five generations present. My deep interest in family history was sparked at one of those reunions after a conversation with my great-grandfather’s youngest brother when I was nine.
Summer now, however, seems to fly past on wings at warp speed.
So as the days of summer move past me and around me in a blur of activity,
I try to enjoy the brilliant sunrises, the often colorful sunsets, the
blooming flowers around me, the quiet down moments on the porch or deck, and
catch a little of that summer time magic.
Now it’s Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer in our culture. The observance began out of the Labor Movement in the late 1800’s, a time when unions grew and strengthened, when workers first had someone to speak for their needs, and child labor became less common. First observed on the first day of May (and still is in most parts of the world), President Grover Cleveland signed the law fixing Labor Day on the first Monday of summer in 1894.
Autumn is my favorite season so I’m ready for those crisp fall days, cool night, bright leaves.
Bring it on!
