The solstice next week will mark the start of my 55th summer. May was wet and cool here, putting farmers and home gardeners behind schedule. A week ago, it finally warmed up. My feet have been released from socks. My eight-month chill is over.
I’ve been back in Nova Scotia two years now and, when considering if I miss the PNW, my mental record will often skip to a time rather than a place—a groove of happy memories: summer 2009.
At that point, I’d been in Seattle for three years. My original plan had been to work there only 2-3 years and so I emailed my family looking for feedback on whether it was time to move home. The economy was still in the recession. They agreed it would be tough to find a tech job back here and encouraged me to stay longer. They knew my life was finally going in the right direction. I sounded happier than I had in years. Maybe ever. I decided to start a new role with a new team. I had met new friends. I was having fun every weekend hiking or camping. Summer #45 was an exciting, hopeful time for me. My two cats were young and healthy. I lived in a care-free apartment. And there was still time left with Mom. That summer doesn’t seem long ago, but being a 44-year old does.
Ten summers before that, I was also having a lot of fun but drinking heavily. As I wrote about in my first post, a pivotal moment came in late summer when, hungover in a tent, I made the decision to go back to school. Summer #25, I’d already been married for two years. I enjoyed socializing on the weekends but I spent my weekdays working unhappily at a clerical job and feeling sorry that my life’s work wasn’t obvious or easy for me. On my lunch hour, I would escape into the humidity of downtown Halifax and sit in a park scribbling in a notebook.
Minus ten summers from that, I was a 14-year old kid reading a gothic novel at night while visiting my grandmother, being scared silly as June bugs hit the bedroom window. That memory came back earlier this week outside the farmhouse when I looked up to see a June bug hit the same window 40 years later.
At age 14, the length of a two-month vacation from school felt like a joyous eternity. Today, my 55th summer feels like a precious opportunity. After a long productive stretch that has me feeling UP—painting, yardwork, gardening—I remembered to also have fun. Claire and I, friends since eighth grade, took a sunny drive with verdant views and had lunch at a fabulous out-of-the-way restaurant. We carpe diem’ed. Summer has 13.5 weeks. 14 weekends. 94 days. The calendar’s filling up. I don’t plan to take a minute of it for granted.
References and related links:
- The photo is from my second summer.
- PNW: the Pacific Northwest.
- summer at last (post #94)
- why back is the new forward (post #1)