Summer 2012

First official day of summer and I feel a huge urgency to cram as many memories as possible into the few short weeks ahead.  Our Summer Bucket List is a yearly tradition, complete with giant wall calendar as a visual reminder of our time.  Some items wind up on the list each summer; North Beach for rocks and shells, fried clams at Browns, North Conway and Storyland and finding Monarch caterpillars to hatch and release.  And, the Summer FoleHawk.

I see some of our usual activities shifting as the kids get older....Storyland probably has only a year left for Foley and McDonagh.  Soon, they will only be going to help Reed run screaming past the Old Woman in the Shoe.  Hopefully, they will still stick their heads up through the pie for my favorite photo opp of all time.  I know this will be done just to humor me.  And, I'm o.k. with that.

As they grow older, I am trying to shift some of our plans to reflect their changing interests, and maybe even influence their appreciation for simpler things.  Camping and hiking are on the list this year, as is a trip to a Drive-In movie.  I also have a sneaky idea brewing about taking the two older kids out to a real dinner to practice holding doors, pulling out chairs, laying a napkin in the lap and using the correct fork. 

My own summer memories are of day trips to Rye Beach.  The wood sided station wagon held me and my brother in the way-back...window rolled down to the cars behind us...no seat belts, the smell of Pall Malls wafting through the car.  As we drove the back road of Hampton, we would wait for that magic moment when the blue of the ocean appeared over the horizon.  Tuna sandwiches were slightly crunchy with sand and Wise potato chips.  Dad knew how I hated sand on my feet and he carried a 5 gallon green water can in the car just for this reason.  My feet and toes would be rinsed completely before reentering any flip flop. 

Salisbury, MA Summer 1970

In 1970, I was 2 years old.  Back then, the fried clams were from Martha's on the road back through Salisbury. My father snapped a Polaroid of me on the stoop of this favorite spot.  When he died some 22 years later, I found the tiny worn photo in his wallet.  I feel like I can remember the picture being taken.

Mostly, this year I want to slow down time.  As questions about puberty and divorce replace the awe of a Monarch transforming, I want them to remember picking blueberries out back and their own crunchy tuna-sand sandwiches at the beach.  I have a craving for the pedal pushers, Schlitz beer and Richard Nixon days of my childhood.  I know much of it will be done under protest and with eyes rolling.

And that's o.k. with me, too.