“She said there is no reason; And, the truth is plain to see.” – Procol Harum, Whiter Shade of Pale
For some reason my wife and I were sitting on the porch on Sunday talking about summer. I remember going to the county fair when I was young. The image in my mind is clear; I remember the ferris wheel best: the lights bright against the dark sky. The grass around the square booths was worn from all the foot traffic – I can just see the balloons, stuffed animals and smell the corn dogs. My brother and I would spend the evening there. Sometimes we would go watch the rodeo.
Summer to me always involved a “green” scent: when I think back I remember laying on top of the sheets with a fan in the window while the cicadas, night crickets, and bugs chirped, buzzed and sounded busy; a trickle of honeysuckle and elm would always be on the breeze. Green: that mass of living stuff “out there” which made me feel at ease.
It seems all too short now, those days gone by. Summer was everything good: long days; playing frisbee until just past sunset; throwing a baseball around; riding bikes and playing “bloody murder.” You know the game? It involved the whole block: one person was “it” and the others would hide within certain parameters (for instance, all of the back yard and the rest of the block to the street – but no further); the others would stand on “base” (usually the porch) and count: “One o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock – all the way to twelve o'clock. At that time, the person hiding had better be hid because if one of the seekers found him it was their job to yell “bloody murder” and escape being it by avoiding being the one tagged. But – it was a summer game, played after dark. That's why I remember it. Yet, it, too, is but a memory. Childhood games.
Summers past, I suppose: things these days, when I think about them, seem too short; time gone by never to be repeated. I guess I could try to understand that, but sometimes things just are because they are. “She said there is no reason; And, the truth is plain to see.” But it is still too short, these summers past and gone. For a time I was able to relive pieces of them through my children – but even those days are now gone. We can't get them back – we have to rely on our memory to pull them back up the stream of time before releasing them to the current again. I suppose there are just some things that were not meant to last for more than a summer season.
Yet at night, when the August heat from the day moves out, and the night noises come in, it isn't long before I can see that ferris wheel all lit up and remember the smiles, wonder and energy of a long ago summer day. It's a shame it seemed so short, but is very plain to see.
– for J.S. - certainly too short a time
