After a long, trying, arctic winter and a fitfully rainy spring, it’s finally here, effective 6:51 a.m. Eastern time on Saturday.
Nothing looks more promising when it’s coming, or fades faster when it goes away, than summer.
I wonder who the two guys were who came by to scrape off the white paint. With a few strokes of his pencil, my grandpa conferred upon them both immortality and anonymity.
They dwell forever on the furthest periphery of the Blumenau family saga, like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, their motivations and machinations known only to each other.
It’s the start of summer. A time when all but the most cellar-dwelling baseball teams have a chance, every tree looks climbable, every teenage love affair looms as something epic, and every day seems — to the winter-hardened soul — to last forever and ever and ever.
Most of summer’s promises don’t come true, I’m fairly sure. Ask any schoolboy about his summer, the night before he embarks for school, and he’ll tell you what he didn’t manage to get to.
(Maybe that’s why I usually prefer fall and winter, which underpromise and overdeliver by comparison.)
We still relish the arrival of every summer, though.
It’s the brightest and breeziest season, and the most leisurely, and the one where the unpredictable breaks of life seem most likely to bounce our way.
The summer of 1973 would be an eventful one for the Blumenaus of Hope Street.
Between the summer solstice and the autumnal equinox, they would welcome their second grandson; see their daughter married (as per the “ordered invites” note on this week’s calendar entry); say goodbye to my grandmother’s closest friend; and ride out a particularly vicious heat wave.
I don’t know if there was anything special they left undone at summer’s end. Seems to me they packed plenty in.
Let us all hope this coming summer goes as well — successful, but salted with enough bittersweet to remind us we are human. That seems like a worthy and realistic prayer, no matter our station in life.
Whatever summer has for us, good or bad, we’ll know soon enough.
Because — after a long, trying, arctic winter and a fitfully rainy spring — it’s finally here.
Hooray for promises.