Summer is Overrated

When our children were wearing out the days of my life, and I was constantly foraging for enough food and sustenance to keep them full, my life was simple. I didn't think so at the time. Hands full, pockets empty, busy running and doing. I remember getting hot blooded mad at them sometimes, and when I'd had it up to there, the cork popping off the top of my head and all that steam rushing out. We've all heard the sounds that kettles make. As a busy mother, your life tends to be in overdrive and very moment-to-moment. There's not lots of time to contemplate tomorrow or next year. I kept a Reader's Digest magazine and my journal on the back of the toilet, since that seemed to be the only place I could find quiet moments. I thought once all these humans grew up, I'd be tranquil and my cork would quit blowing off. And life would be simpler. Insert: trials, troubles, human nature, more bends in the curve. But not all bad, mind you. Where I was busy with young people and survival, I've been busy ever since with all sorts of mortals and yep, survival. But summers, they never really change.

This afternoon I sat on the swing in our backyard, basking in the humid breeze that was trying to whisk by. Dog at my feet, lovely overgrown lawn (the mower's broken). My husband blew in with his really-old car (but hey, he keeps it polished and the oil changed). I began to bless God, because even though we did lots of things wrong, we mustered for all these years to eventually pay cash for a house. We did insane things for that to happen. Fixing up homes, living in squalor, going on murderous rampages while tearing out walls and putting up wallpaper, living in basements, parents' homes, even a camper, while we worked on said homes. Today I looked up at our beautiful, solid Victorian house, 116 years old. There is truly something different about a place that is paid for. We really own it, not the mortgage company (though the tax man might disagree). I worried that because it was so old, it might feel like someone else took up all the history here and it wouldn't be "ours." But it's as comfortable as an old shoe, and since I'm busier than ever, it sorta looks like that, or maybe an old boot. It has a sweet spirit and it seems to forgive me when I neglect it. People ask me all the time if it's haunted and I tell them, yeah, the Holy Ghost lives here, praise God. We prayed over it and it's all covered. These thick, plaster walls and the 12-foot ceilings make it nice and cool in the summer. And the winters aren't bad either, thanks to those walls and storm windows. Our last house, super-insulated and shored-up, wasn't nearly as energy efficient as this one. How weird is that? 

The divine porch is beckoning but I'm not going out there 'til September or 'til Pa puts me a ceiling fan up. It just kills me, all these magazines that shout "Summer's here! Time to break out the grill! Put up party lights and invite guests over for supper on the deck!" Dripping on the deck is more like it. Did they ever actually live in the South? We don't do that partying stuff in the summer. That's done in the spring and fall. Summer means slogging through thick humidity to everywhere you have to go, getting inside as quickly as possible, or finding a swimming hole somewhere. We go to Florida about once a year so we can throw ourselves in the ocean, bake all the saltwater off, jump in again, then hurtle headlong into a cool pool. Repeat. Then beg God for maybe one more chance to do it again before September is over. There's nothing like that sensation of floating in cool water when your skin is cooked into a par-boiled state. Even as I write this, I can feel that part of my soul that is in Panama City just waiting for next year. I always hate myself for not appreciating it more while I'm there. So for now, I'll content myself with that soulish place in my mind. Summer's almost over, praise the Lord and pass the peas. 'Cause if I can't get fully immersed somewhere, Fall might as well come on down.