A Summer to Remember

"Summer afternoon, summer afternoon. To me, those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."

~ Henry James

A Summer to Remember

One of my favorite summertime memories is Mic and Doreen, aka Dad and Mom, rushing home early from work on a warm July afternoon, hooking up the ski boat, and packing us into the car with a picnic to head over to Lake Sammamish, where we'd water ski and play in the water until dusk.

For me, summertime was a time to be outside, in the sun, on the water, or at the beach. I love summer. So every year, right about now, I take a little pause to look back and think about how the summer unfolded.

I think about all the things I'd hoped for at the beginning, and now, nearing the end, I wonder where the time went. I find myself doing the math on whatever's still on the list, calculating the odds it actually happens before summer runs out.

It's the last weekend of August, and while we still have another week until Labor Day, the unofficial end of summer, I can already catch the crisp smell of fall in the early morning air. It brings on a small wave of melancholy every time, that first hint that something good is already slipping toward its end. It's the same tug I feel packing up after a vacation, or turning the last page of a book I didn't want to finish. No matter how many times I've lived through an ending, that first note of it still catches me a little off guard.

This has been quite a summer for me. Each day unfolded into its own unpredictable scene of wonder.

From the lazy days on the Kitsap Peninsula, to the banks of the Deschutes River, to the iconic waters of the San Juans, to the beaches of Whidbey Island, and various ports, mountains, and places in between, I found adventure and real joy in letting things unfold.

One of those Whidbey days landed me at a friend's cabin, gathered with a group from my eighth-grade class of 1975. We feasted on fresh crab on the deck and shared memories and stories of years gone by.

That's really what this summer turned out to be. Most of it wasn't planned. Things kept showing up, and I said yes. Fresh crab on a deck with people I've known since I was nine. A beach. Time on the water. A trail up the side of a mountain.

Somewhere around the San Juan Islands, I stopped doing the math on what was still left on my list. The odds turned out not to matter much. What mattered was staying open enough to notice what showed up instead.

I still feel that same small ache today, the one that shows up every year right about now. I don't think it ever fully goes away, not for me. But I've decided it isn't something to outrun. It's just proof of how much I loved the summer, the same way I loved being packed into the back of that car as a kid, headed to Lake Sammamish, not wanting the day to end.

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