Lake Geneva Summer

In honor of my brief excursion south of the border (not Illinois), I offer a couple days of greatest hits. Then again, it’s more like a “tolerable hits” selection, since even my greatest hits would fail to register in even the most humble compilation. Today, a post about summer. It’s December now, which means you have six months to figure out how to avoid becoming a tragic figure like my younger brother.

Summer should contact the police department and make public the domestic abuse that she has so sheepishly absorbed over the years. Summer doesn’t deserve to be mistreated, yet each year, most of us throw her down the stairs at least once a week, and even the most reserved among us give Summer an unprovoked slap once in a while. Summer needs a spot on The Oprah’s couch. And a box of Kleenex. Not the scratchy kind either- the kind with aloe. Summer is the victim, yet we force her into the line up with Spring, Fall, and Winter, and treat her like she’s as guilty as those unruly months that bookmark her seasonal would be reign. Ask kids to list the seasons and they’ll rattle them off, in order, without any particular reverence paid to the season that deserves the most respect.

When Summer arrives, we complain that she’s too hot. Or too humid. Or other times, we complain that she’s too long. When late August comes around, we’re in a rush to try out our new fall wardrobes. Shorts have long lost their allure by September first, and we’re already looking forward to changing colors and falling leaves. Eeek! Don’t these new Frye boots just, like, scream autumn?! While we’re in an ADD inspired hurry to usher in the next season, Summer is just trying to figure out what she did wrong. Was she too hot? Did she overstay her welcome? And why is it that on 82 degree summer days when there’s seldom a cloud in the sky, why do we ignore her? When we choose the inside of office buildings over her on Wednesday afternoons, that’s one thing. But when Saturday afternoons are spent inside suburban mansions rather than under her radiant warmth, well, she just feels like dying. Maybe Algore is right, she thinks. Maybe people do hate Summer.

We didn’t always ignore her. When we were kids, we couldn’t wait for her to arrive. By the time she just started packing her things and turning the keys back to the landlord of the apartment she sublets every winter in Sydney, we were anxious for her return. We watched for her out the windows of our homes and the windows of our schools. In fact, May was a mess as we counted down the days between whatever day it was and the day she would finally arrive. After all, when Summer returned that meant we could stay outside later, swim longer, sleep later, and lose track of time. Winter makes you keep the time. Summer? She doesn’t even wear a watch. She does love hammocks though, unlike Winter- he can barely stand the sight of them.

Summer is everything to us in our youth. We know exactly when she’s going to show up, and we dread the day she leaves. My younger brother was a particular fan of summer, and at a young age he seemed to know her better than I ever did. I spent my summers playing in much the same fashion, but I was a busy boy, always in a hurry to grow up. When some children spent their adolescent evenings falling in love under the Summer stars, I was doing simple math, figuring how much I’d need to save in order to go to college and buy a car. When some kids day dreamed, they drew childish pictures on paper. I drew numbers and dollar signs and charted how many lawns my hired help could mow in a single day. It’s not that I didn’t love Summer then, I just took her for granted. My younger brother didn’t have time for work, instead preferring to acknowledge Summer in a way that I never really did. He’d wake up on Summer mornings and eat cereal. Then he’d watch cartoons. And then he’d put on his swim shorts, and he’d swim. Whether it was Tuesday or Saturday, the routine was the same.

He didn’t swim for an hour or two. He swam for the entire day. As long as Summer was sharing her warmth, he would indulge her, and he would swim. It was more of a wallow, mixed with floating and diving, but he was always in the water. He laid claim to the shallows at the Loch Vista Club pier, and we’d affectionately (jeeringly) call him a walrus. Or a seal if we were being kind. That was when seals were seals and Heidi Klum had no interest in them. And it wasn’t only because of his build, it was because he was always either in the water, just out of the water, or just about to go back into the water. He played a mean game of Marco Polo. My grandmother would sit in the cool shade of the pier and sing (unknowingly) perverse songs about diving between the legs of bowl-legged women, and my little brother would swim.

My brother, one of the biggest fans of Summer I ever knew, doesn’t even know her name any more. I doubt he’d recognize her if he ever did take the time to look. Summer comes and Summer goes, and my younger, now grown brother hardly notices. I shouldn’t say that, because he complains that the place he works gets too hot in the summer. He sweats a lot at his job, and I imagine he curses Summer on those days when she’s particularly assertive. I used to do the same, but during my four month long shouting match with Winter, I realized something about Summer. I saw her in a different light than I had previously. Like a girl you’ve known for a long time, but she just did her hair differently and that little tweak compounded her beauty ten fold. I always liked Summer, but I haven’t always respected her.

Chances are, you’ve been neglecting Summer too. Treating her like she’s just another season. Lumping her in the same category as Spring (with her multiple personalities), and Winter with his steely exterior. Worse yet, our nonchalant attitude towards her may very well be affecting how our children view her. Instead of letting our children be children, we encourage and back-slap to the point of fault. Too many sporting events, too much structure. Lazy summer days at the lake should be hallmark of any privileged childhood, yet as parents we’ve over-scheduled the joy right out of Summer. We’ve made those lazy afternoons where naps come easily after a morning spent swimming, fishing, and sunning, all too difficult to schedule. People with summer homes can be guilty of it, and people without summer homes use their schedules as an excuse as to why they shouldn’t buy. Too busy with this and too busy with that. As if being over-scheduled is a badge and special blue ribbons await those with the most ink on their Pottery Barn calendars. Tennis practice for the kids on Wednesday, baseball on Saturday, football on Sunday. Curling on Monday. And don’t forget all that Wii playing in-between. The very Summers that are the source of extreme, pleasant nostalgia for many of us are the same Summers that we schedule right out of existence for our own children.

We live our lives as though we’re immortal, turning an inattentive shoulder to the proven fact that our lives are short, and our Summers even shorter. In the same paradoxical breath, we pretend to understand that life is a gift, and no one is promised today, let alone tomorrow. Our actions and willing nonchalance towards Summer proves that we may speak like we understand the fleeting nature of life, but our schedules continually adjust for a tomorrow that is never promised, but always scheduled.

I have an idea. Let’s welcome Summer back this year. Let’s not just exist in our Summer, let’s own it. Let’s put out signs and banners and welcome her with lit charcoal grills, open arms and shirtless backs. Let’s beat back our schedules so that Summer can mean something- not only for us, but for our children. Let’s take back our Summers. Let’s stop throwing her down the stairs. Let’s stop treating her like she’s just another season. In the very best of situations, we have around 80 summers that we’re all hoping to enjoy in life. Yet, time and time again, we tell Summer to just hold on a bit. We’ll be ready for her someday, but not now. Maybe next year. Then we’ll have time for her. Then, when we’re too old to thoroughly enjoy her, then we’ll make time. We promise.

Take back your Summer. She’s been waiting this whole time, ready to forgive and forget. She won’t brow beat you for ignoring her for the past umpteen years, and she won’t shame you into admitting that you’ve yet to introduce your own children to her. She’s waiting with her tanned shoulders and the last bites of a summer night ice cream cone that’s melting over the paper napkin and down her fingers. She’s there, ready to entertain, ready to thrill, and I know from personal experience, Lake Geneva is one of her very favorite haunts. Oh, and I just talked with her- she’ll be here in 86 days.