It is said that each of us, if we’re lucky, gets 80 summers. Some folks prefer winter or the rebirth vibe of spring, but for most, it is summer, the short season of our years, that seems sweetest.
Summers have telescoped lives of their own. Whatever our age, summer begins in our minds as hopes and expectations, is realized in the days from June 21 to Sep. 21 and is remembered ever after.
The very first summer I remember was 1951, at Rockaway Beach, where we rented a bungalow on 54th Street. That was the Summer of My Sister, who had recently been born and, for some reason, expected to come along on our vacation. The fireworks on the boardwalk every Wednesday night were my big-sister treat, and best memory.
There was the Summer of New Hampshire, when our parents took us on a much-hyped car trip to the Granite State. I was 8, my sister was 4 and our grandmother, who sat in the back seat, was ancient, I guess in her 50s. My father had made all the arrangements via mail, writing to Stonybrook Farms to set up our holiday.
We drove 10 hours, pumped with excitement. When we drove through the broken gates, the moment collapsed on itself like a black hole. The cabins were like chicken coops. My mother started to sob. But Dad had a plan. We stayed one night, skipped out in the predawn hours and drove all the way to Canada. That summer I learned to have a Plan B, and how to skip out under cover of darkness.
The Summer of Robert English was a doozie. I was about 15, living in Cedarhurst, and my mother’s best friend invited her nephew, 16, to visit for the summer from New Mexico. I fell wildly in love with Robert the second I saw him. Which was also how
he felt when I introduced him to my best friend, Jackie. I barely survived their romance.
The Summer of Working for Dad was like pinning a golden moment in time. My dad was a dentist, and after my freshman year in college, I worked in his office in Brooklyn. Chairside assistant. Holder of hands. But it wasn’t the work that made the summer remarkable; it was getting to know my father. We went out to lunch every day and we talked. Without the context of our regular family life, he became a real person to me.
Also, one of his patients gave me a $10 tip.
I remember the Summer of the Diet Doctor, when I answered an ad for an assistant in a diet-pill practice. The doctor was 48 and his wife was 18, my age. I remember that summer because I lied to get the job, not revealing that I was going back to college in the fall.
By July I couldn’t stand it; I told them the truth. They asked me to stay on. That was the good part. The bad part was that the doctor was a groper. Quite a few life lessons were learned.
Our best summers were the Montana Summers, the five years we traveled the state, from Missoula to Glacier Park, from Flathead Lake to White Fish to Helena. We hiked and learned to fly fish and, as a family and for the first time, leaped out of our comfort zone and found footing in new terrain.
More recently, the Summer of Covid was, for us, not deadly, but frightening. We stayed at our place in Florida through the summer, hidden away inside, except for late afternoon, when we went down to the beach and into the Gulf. Every day, the same routine. We didn’t see our children and grandchildren for months. We think of that summer with gratitude, for our family surviving, and even for the endless open expanses of time to think and read and test ourselves against the unknown.
What will the Summer of ’25 be remembered for? I lived through the Summer of Love in 1967, high on freedom and music and just being young. We protested the war in Vietnam and sat in on sit-ins and danced to the Dead.
But this summer is not feeling like love. Political strife ramped up by bad actors has supercharged the atmosphere.
I’ll keep calling out the threats to our freedoms and democracy, but that’s not a full-time job. I will also find the joyful moments, hold on to them and try not to let go.
