1975

In June of 1975 my dad left our home in New Jersey for his new job in Saudi Arabia. The plan was for him to get settled in and then the rest of the family would move overseas to join him in October. It was the summer between 7th and 8th grade for me, and moving seemed too far away to worry about. My mom, on the other hand, had a lot to worry about. She had to pack everything we wanted to ship over, (with a 3000 pound limit), get rid of the rest, sell the house, and the car, and pack up the three of us kids, our dog, two cats, and the stuff we would need until our shipment arrived three months later, all of which had to be transported to the airport and checked first on a flight to London and then on to Dhahran.

Wow. Until I wrote that paragraph, I never fully considered the magnitude of what my mother pulled off. 

Here's what I remember about that summer. Despite being ridiculously busy, my mom must have also been feeling a little flush, because my dad's new job paid a lot more than the old one. For example, after our usual summer trip to visit family in suburban DC, she packed us into the station wagon and headed south instead of north. The four of us went to Williamsburg, stayed in a hotel, and visited Busch Gardens, Colonial Williamsburg, and Jamestown. It was a summer vacation the likes of which we'd never had before, including dinner at the King's Arms Inn in the historic section of Williamsburg. None of the three of us had ever been to such a nice restaurant. 

I also remember Mom being a little less frugal when shopping that summer. Of course we had to have enough clothes to last us an entire school year, but there also seemed to be a few more treats at the grocery store, too, and maybe a bit more cash in her wallet than we were used to seeing. There were a few bumps, of course, like the time when she decided we shouldn't bring our dog, and we cried and begged and offered our own money, and so she figured out a way to make it work. And despite everything she had to do, I remember my mom being generally upbeat and excited about the move, and so that's how I felt most of the time, too.

The shape of that summer was change and opportunity, and the promise of transformation from the provincial to the worldly, all under the safe guidance of my mother's steady hand.

The Shape of Summer

Today was yet another perfect summer day here in Buffalo. The weather has been spectacular since we arrived on Monday: low 80s, breezy, puffy white clouds in a deep blue sky, some rain at night, but not much humidity in the day. 

The weather may be ideal, but the trip has been a little tough. Heidi’s parents are growing older; they tire easily and are a bit testy at times. It’s hard to know how to be supportive, not so much in the short term, while we are here, but the rest of the time, when we are 400 miles away. It takes a toll on Heidi and clouds the otherwise beautiful days.

As we near the halfway point of summer, I am trying to live in the moment and love each day for what it has to offer, because like every season or time, this one is beginning to take shape in my consciousness. So far, in addition to this trip to Buffalo, there has been the wonderful trip to Maine with all its challenges, my birthday, the days at home between traveling, the garden, my thoughts on teaching and retirement.

As a benchmark, I find myself thinking back on so many summers past and considering the weather, the travel, the activities, and what feeling those elements have formed as a whole. 

Regular readers know how fond I am of lists and serials, and in the coming days? I will present to you ten memorable summers. 

Late to the Funeral

All my life I have considered Elvis Presley as some old guy who died young. I was only 15 when he died at the age of 42 in the summer of '77.  He was literally my father's age, born 2 days later, and his music? Old, even when I was a kid. Then there were all those capes and sequins and the sweat and the sneer; I just did not get it.

But today we went to Baz Luhrmann's biopic of the king, mostly because it was a movie that me and Heidi and her parents could all agree on. It was a long show, and I have mixed feelings about Tom Hanks as Colonel Parker, but I sure did not expect to find myself quite so emotional at the end. 

Maybe it was spending time and going to the movies with Heidi's older parents, or my own senior discount at the ticket booth, or the fact that the character of Tom Parker was much closer in age to me now than Elvis ever would be. I just know that right before the end credits, when they rolled the footage of the real Elvis in Vegas in one of the last performances of his life, the weird old caricature of the guy I remembered was replaced by a young man a quick smile, and I was really sad that his life was cut short.

Fun Police

I was playing a friendly game of tuggy with Heidi’s parents’ dog, Briggs. “Gimme that, you bad boy,” I scolded him playfully. From out of nowhere, Lucy dashed over and grabbed the toy from his mouth and then brought it over to me. She pranced proudly away, satisfied that the fun was over. 

They Have Those?

We were watching an episode of the most recent season of Shetland the other night. I've written before about the crime procedural drama and how it always inspires us to start planning our trip to those islands in the middle of the North Sea, somewhere between Scotland and Norway. "Your dad is on the road to Aith," one character reported to another, "where the Cake Fridge is."

"Did she just say 'Cake Fridge?'" I asked Heidi incredulously.

The answer was yes. When the main character came to collect his aging father, the old man was eating cupcakes out of a reach-in refrigerator on the side of the road, surrounded by rolling heaths with a spit of the North Sea behind him. "Look at all these free cakes," he told his son.

"You have to pay for them," he was informed. "There's an honesty box."

A quick web search confirmed the existence of cake fridges and honesty boxes for not only cakes, but all sorts of local products on the Island. There are egg stands, seasonal fruit and vegetables, sauces, pickles, and woolen textiles.

As if we needed more reason to book our travel!

Respite

The drive to Buffalo today was long, but nothing  compared to the trip to and from Maine. Traffic was light, and the weather was good. 

There was a scary moment when the winding mountain road we were on opened to a passing lane and as I accelerated to go around the driver in front of me, he slowed to a stop. A mother deer and her fawn were crossing just ahead, and we stopped too. No traffic could pass as they made their way tenuously to the other side, though my heart thumped as I measured the progress of the tanker truck barreling toward us in the other lane. And when the deer paused on the shoulder and seemed to consider retracing their steps back into the road, I almost cried, but they finally leapt lightly into the trees and disappeared. 

After that, I confess to being a little spooked: everything in my peripheral sight seemed like  a deer ready to jump in front of me. But the rest of the drive was uneventful, and we made it here just at 5. Heidi's brother helped carry our stuff in; her dad greeted us from the recliner in front of the TV; her mom waived off any offers of help as she put the finishing touches on dinner, so we took the dogs for a walk and then relaxed on the back patio under the awning until supper was served. 

It was a throwback to earlier days when we were all younger, but there was definitely something kind of nice about not being in charge of anything. I could just be still for a little while. 

Prophylaxis

"I might get some walking sticks," I told my brother when we were in Maine. "Not to walk with!" I added quickly.

"Why would you get them then?" he asked.

"To have in my pack in case someone needed them," I explained. 

I was trying to be proactive, but there were so many walking sticks to choose from in the shops, that I decided it would be best to do some research before I bought anything. "Look on Wirecutter," my sister suggested when I mentioned it to her, and that seemed like very good advice.

"Do you ever use walking sticks?" my friend Ruth asked me at the end of that week.

"That's so funny you should ask," I said, and recounted my earlier conversations. "Do you ever use them?"

"No," she laughed, "I'm too clumsy. I'm afraid if I had anything in my hands to think about I might kill myself! But my sister uses them all the time because she has bad knees."

I nodded and tried to picture myself hiking with one or more of the sticks, but I just couldn't see it. 

Even so, I did look on Wirecutter when I got home, and I found a pair that were not only well-rated, they could also be used as poles for the expensive lightweight tent the company also sells. 

I am now the proud owner of a couple of high-end walking sticks, and who knows? 

I might even use them for something!