When I was young, and summer days were long and filled with children laughing, the summer
was a time filled with endless fun. No worries of world politics, no serious problems, just time spent with friends and with no homework. Responsibility, of course, was a course that my Mother taught, and did so quite well. After chores were finished we were free to roam the wilds of our long back yard, explore those things that dwelled in shallow creeks which broadened and became deeper as it's course fed into a large lake.
There were wild expeditions of Cronauer children and other neighborhood kids that became a safari on country back roads, all pedaling madly down roads which seldom had other traffic. There were treks on railroad tracks which would lead us to discovering other parts of our small town. There were no adult thoughts of heat, humidity, bugs, we were children, and as adults we look back and wonder if the miserable hot and humid days of summer even existed back then, or was it magic?
But the best part of summer? Yes, if we were lucky, was a family vacation.(something so elusive to the adults we now are, times were different back then.) We had week long camping trips which felt more like 3 weeks, hitting as many states as we could in that time. Exploring new places. Hearing scary noises at night which surely must have been a bear. Seeing caves, lakes, mountains (which had bears) and the driving from state to state. We were not entertained by technology back then. There were games which could be played to pass the time, license plates, VW bugs, animal, vegetable and mineral..what is bigger than a bread box or simply reading or playing quiet games alone.
There was also.."He's touching me!" "Get off my side of the seat!" "You are so gross!" coming from the back seat which held one girl and two boys, and of course that lucky one who was in the middle. Sometimes I would just leave the seat and settle over the hump on the floor just so I did not have to touch my brothers.
The vacations were all fairly simple, as my parents were not wealthy, but my Mother was an expert at saving what she could, which is why we went. My fondest memories, and the ones that still held an olfactory and sound memory, were the trips to the sea shore. There is no other smell in the world that can hold up to a seaside town on the east coast. Sounds of crying gulls, and crashing waves, The boardwalks held the smell of wood, tar and salt water. The smells of concession stands, with fries, caramel popcorn, funnel cakes and other tantalizing odors are a permanent part of my memories.
But the sound of waves, endlessly rolling in to stretch out onto the sand in salty foam, are something that can never be duplicated. Carting all blankets, towels and equipment down to the sand. Running across that sand if it was too hot and straight into the wet sand being pulled by the waves. Getting settled, and sitting down to blow into our always deflating canvas rafts. Those rafts were absolutely the only way to ride the waves, and not have to touch your feet to an unknown ocean floor. Greasing up with Coppertone to prevent sunburn, and yet still getting burnt.
Finally to grab your raft, race down to the surf where you stood letting the shallow waves roll over you, getting used to the cold water. feeling the strong pull of the undertow as the water was pulled back into the oncoming waves. Wading out, a little further, then further, until the water was almost chest high. Swinging yourself onto the raft, sometimes not so easy. Rolling over the smaller swells.
Then..in the distance..the seventh wave could be seen, a swell still, but larger than the others. Paddling, riding over the swells, aligning you and your raft until you were almost parallel with the wave. Broad strokes with your arms to climb to the almost top of the wave, but not over. You can feel it changing, starting to break, and then flying with the wave all the way to the shallows. Usually you would find yourself hundreds of yards beyond where you entered the water, and you would have to pull yourself and your raft back to the starting point. No sense in making Mom mad at you.
As an adult I look back at those summer days and sometimes wish so hard that childhood could be repeated. Days of innocence; the summer off with only chores and summer camp to keep you from friends and fun, no adult worries.
If you wonder what brought on this wave of nostalgia, it was a wave of a different sort. Colorado is perhaps the windiest place I have ever lived. Being near the base of the Front Range we get a great deal of high wind. Standing on the back porch you can hear it roaring, building and then crashing in to blow gale force through the trees and neighborhood. And yes, there is that one, that one which is bigger, stronger and louder..that seventh wave of air that sent me back to childhood memories.
Kelly's Go fund Me
