Summer’s Place

The Patriots had their first pre-season football game last week. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Yes, it’s the middle of August, and yes, the rest of the country has turned their gaze toward back-to-school routines, but I’m in no rush. When I was little, I divided the year into summer and not summer. Summer was not just a season; it was a smell, a taste, a feeling, and, for five generations of my family, a place. Without regard for the Gregorian Calendar or the tilt of the earth’s pole, we knew that summer began when whatever station wagon my mother happened to be driving that year crested the hill on Sage Creek Drive toward Lake Ontario, and someone called out, “I see the lake!”

Hours before that, my siblings and I would have been sitting in our sticky classrooms, counting down the minutes to be launched into summer’s freedom. Meanwhile, our mother would be schlepping back and forth between our house and the driveway, lugging our clothes, sheets, blankets, towels, cleaning supplies, and enough food to last until she could make it to the grocery store. Mom would squeeze it all into every inch of space of the car while preserving enough room for the dog, the cat (who naturally hated the dog), and an abundance of children. No one worried about seatbelts, or even sitting in a seat for that matter. We would just cram into whatever space we could find. Being the youngest, I was often relegated to the well on the floor behind the driver’s seat or, sometimes, if I was lucky, the way back, tucked between suitcases and the kitty litter. It may have been only an hour’s drive, but when we pulled up to our family camp and spilled out of the car, we were in a different world.

For the next two months, we were wild children – tromping to the swampy woods in search of frogs, turtles, or snakes. Shoes were reserved for church, and our feet developed a leather toughness impervious to the dirt road or rocky shore. Showers were replaced by an occasional lather in the lake with a bar of Ivory soap. Grown-ups didn’t really care what we did, as long as we had an adult watch us when we swam. They let down their guard, or maybe just gave up a little. Freeze Pops became an acceptable snack. Wheaties and Grape Nuts were replaced by individual boxes of Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops. The kind you could split open along the perforated lines, and pour the milk right in. As if even washing a cereal bowl was just too much to ask.

Our bodies grew strong and tan. We filled our days climbing the rocky banks of the nearby bluff, chicken fights, and underwater breath-holding competitions. At some point, we would haul our bodies out of the lake long enough for bologna sandwiches on Wonder Bread, and the requisite 30 minutes before going back in the water to start again. We thrived on local peaches, salt potatoes, fresh corn from the Price’s farm, and coneys (those spicy white hot dogs made of god knows what).

Rainy days would find us at the picnic table on the porch, playing Pitch or Monopoly. We had a drawer full of board games but rarely had a complete set of anything, so we’d create our own games using a Frankenstein hybrid of pieces and cards.

Bedtimes, which were strictly enforced the rest of the year, were an afterthought. If we went to bed in sandy sheets, so be it; we were too tired to notice.

On Labor Day (and not before), Mom would load up the station wagon again and drive us back to the other side of the wardrobe where baths were required, bedtimes honored, and shoes expected.

It’s been years since I was at my family’s camp, but I am lucky enough to still live on a lake. I have traded chicken fights for standup paddling, and instead of climbing the bluff of my childhood, I climb the nearby mountain (in hiking boots). I don’t eat much meat, but in honor of the girl who ate bologna on Wonder Bread and loved coneys, I refuse to relinquish these last days of summer. Labor Day will be here soon enough, and by then I may be ready to enjoy the Patriots’ first real game. Until then, I’ll stay right here, in summer.