Spring Sprung, Now Summer Starts to Sizzle

by Tom Anselm

Am I just crazy (don’t answer that!) but does it seem like we once again had a next-to-nothing springtime? Just a wink and a smile, and moving on. The only real sign of the second season of the year were buckets of yellow pollen that coated everything, my nose-hairs included, for about three weeks so far. And the fact that what was once a few piddly sprouts have become full-blown trees and lush lawns. Not that I’m complaining about that, green being my second-favorite color. Of course there is more grass to cut and more often.

So even though summer officially doesn’t come until June 21, we in this region always get a solid dose of it for a month previous, and this year seems like no exception to that rule.

Still, the word ‘summer’ brings up lots of good feeling, near 90-degree days in May notwithstanding.

The end of school, baseball games, pool time, golfing, vacations, longer days, super sunsets. These are the standards of the season, and can’t be discounted. But there are times when I try to take notice of the smaller things.

I wander down to the lake by our house. The sounds of the streets and byways fade, replaced by water gently lapping the bank. I heard a whippoorwill yesterday, a cardinal last week. The rustle of the taller grasses just in front of the trees along the creek, with their own swishing of leaves as the breeze rolls in. There is a scarlet tanager that is always just by the white wildflowers.

Once in a while, a fish will pop the surface, in a soft jump-plop, which causes me to quickly cast in that direction. Of course, that little guy has likely set a course for another location, one that is definitely not in my favor. But hey, one can hope, right?

And the smells. A priest friend of ours who grew up on a farm would always tell us to go out and grab yourself a good handful of dirt and bring it up to your nose, take a deep breath. It was his way of digging into the season of growth. A dandelion has that tangy aroma, a fresh-cut yard it’s very own as well. Scrape the bark of a tree, step out onto the porch after a good old storm. Nothing beats the mouth-watering smoke of somebody in the neighborhood, grilling. And can I ever smell Coppertone and not think of my youth?

It is also a good time for looking up. Enjoy the clouds as they change from monster to whale to angel before your very eyes. Follow the hawks, making lazy circles in the sky. Catch the lightning and feel the rumble of a thunder storm moving in from the west, the change in temperature, the bend of the trees.

Close your eyes and listen for the sheets of rain making their way to your neighborhood. Watch the birds scurry a teeny bit more as they search for cover. For really, do you ever see birds flying when it’s pouring down?

Days gone by, we’d spend hours under tree-shade, killing time between baseball games, or just to escape the heat. We had no devices to stare at, no 6000 channels to click through and STILL find nothing to watch. Maybe there was a window A/C unit to sit under for awhile, or at least til mom lovingly said “Get the heck outside.” We’d invent stuff to do, like climbing on the roof by the garage and jumping off onto the hill by the Wilson’s house, because it sloped up, and we were bored. Brilliant, right?

Or playing a golf game with a baseball bat and a tennis ball and a couple holes dug into each other’s front yard. A three-hole par-whatever course of our own making. The winner was whoever finished the route three times with lowest score, or more likely, didn’t lose his ball in the sewer at the bottom of the street.

And then, the evening… cicada’s with their music, mosquitoes beginning to feast, quickly-fading day-into-darkness and the coming of the stars. Finding the North Star, Big Dipper. Waiting for the moonrise. Sitting on the front porch and guessing what color the next car would be when it came by the corner streetlamp.

The Lovely Jill had a magical cul de sac where she grew up (they called it a “circle”… of course!) where they played a night-time game called “Stinkbase.” It was a gloriously simple variation of tag, with upwards of 35 kids from just a few families running and sweating and laughing and yelping, back and forth across the steamy pavement, from safe zone to safe zone, until the last kid was caught by those who became the previously-tagged-now-turned-catchers. And the game started over. Again and again, until mom called them in or they just plum pooped out.

Stinkbase. Suntan Beach in West Alton. Skeeter bites. Smells. Sounds and sights.

Summer.

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