So Long, Summer 

By TAD BARTIMUS

The newspaper tells us there are weighty matters abroad in the land. The presidential race is in full voice, Russia is mourning its submariners, earthquakes are rattling Tokyo. It's a yo-yo stock market. Bill Clinton is being investigated by yet another grand jury. The British plan to ease their ban on human cloning. And on TV, the whole west look afire.

I know I should immerse myself in these weighty matters, for they are relevant to the future of the human race. But all I can do is weed the garden, daydream in a lawn chair, swim. 

I can't even bestir myself to cook a real meal.

"Keep looking, I know there's a leftover pork chop in there somewhere. If you can't find it, try the peanut butter on the third shelf. Grape jelly's in the door, bread's in the freezer. Help yourself."

Thanksgiving and Christmas feasts will come soon enough; today I have the end-of-summer lazies. Too lazy to let go of sunny afternoons and lingering twilights. Too lazy to come inside where unanswered letters barricade themselves in the desk; bags of ironing are imprisoned in the hall closet, dresser drawers are held hostage to a distant rainy day.

Time enough for tidiness in November, when it's dark long before supper and feet need fuzzy slippers. Right now we can run barefooted in thick grass and, in our shirtsleeves, watch the moon come up. Why would we squander such precious hours on personal hygiene and familial order? 

Surely even Bill Gates takes a vacation. Push, push, push – we do that all year, until summer finally overtakes us with its heat and tantalizing promise of recaptured childhood. Dog days beckon us to throw off our worries and jump in the pool. Belly flop. Abandon decorum. Cast off social status. Get our clothes wet and our hands dirty. 

After the age of 15, there isn't nearly enough child in us. Boomers now running the show are terminally buttoned-down and tasseled. The Bomb and AIDS and conspicuous consumption have made us serious about gated communities, tax credits, SAT scores. We bore even ourselves.

I listen to the children next door, out in the yard after dark, as they shriek in pleasure at chasing a ball. When do we lose that glee at being alive? Our first summer job, perhaps, when empty time no longer stretches endlessly from May to September, waiting to be spent only in play. One job blends into another, and pretty soon we're a CEO, a middle manager, a foreman on the line. We work six days a week and think about it the seventh. We are always tired, old before our time. We settle in for the long haul.

Then along comes summer, making us sick of fretting, of balancing the checkbook and planning for retirement. Alas, too many of us who survived Vietnam and graduate school, triple bypasses, pyramid schemes and our 40s, don't want to come out and play. Used to be we would at the drop of a dime in a pay phone; now our day planners are booked through April 2002. For all our education, we haven't learned very much.

But deep down, none of us wants to take a number to live in the moment. We want our now NOW! Things happen. At this moment a person about whom I care deeply is struggling to move his legs after they became paralyzed when, on a whim, he went out to trim a tree. Two days ago another friend simply fell over, gone before he hit the ground. 

In winter, we lock ourselves inside our houses and focus our minds. We are subdued; being alone and confined doesn't seem such a bother. 

But in summer – ah, summer! We can throw off our clothes, sing out loud, let go of our little red wagons overflowing with regret. Soon enough we'll come indoors and be grownups again. We'll listen to Al Gore and George Bush, and then decide. We'll schedule parent-teacher conferences, strap on our cell phones, duel with yellow sticky notes. 

But in these last, lingering, delicious days of voluptuous petunias and marinated shrimp on the barbecue, we should let our hearts float like a child's balloon. We should hoard how summer tastes and smells and feels, for instinctively we know the truth of poet Peggy Pond Church's words:

"The timeless moment

"held us and let us go.

"The music lingered 

"for a long while among us.

"Why does my heart still tremble

"at the sound of a falling leaf?"

© 2000 The Women Syndicate. The content on these pages is the property of The Women Syndicate and may not be used without express written permission. Contact friends@tadbartimus.com