Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect.

-Margaret Mitchell

 

Back in May, the approaching summer made some bold promises. Things would slow down and there would be oodles of time for catching up on my reading. With no less than five books sitting patiently waiting to rest in my lap, I looked forward to this opportunity with gleeful anticipation. Then, there was the assurance of those long lazy paddle boat days and the quiet, reflective canoe days. Homemade ice cream, watermelon, family dock days and cookouts. Yeah, Summer 2000 loomed large, back in May. But something went awry. Apparently the promises were just vain imaginings in my head.

Now that it is time to put the boat to bed for the winter and pull out the fall decorations, I am left wondering why I am in such a funk, feeling as though I had been robbed of summer this year. And isn't it silly for me to be so determined that every season should owe me all the things I have expected of it? And why is this? Regardless, the books are still sitting there, the gathering dust undisturbed. The paddle boat and canoe never made it off the dock, at least not by me. Where did it go? Mostly I recall it was scorching hot and dry. I remember getting up and out early every other day to water my languishing flowers. I remember a few "dock days", vaguely. Of course, with the drought came seriously lowered lake levels and a constant vigil to keep moving the dock away from the muddy edges of the rapidly deepening shore . This was worrisome and sort of took the joy out of the whole swimming thing. Somehow it isn't as much fun leaping off the dock when you have to be careful of landing in water that only comes up to your waist. Yick! And who knows what is under there on the bottom. No, it's much better to be afloat ten feet above the mud, weeds and sunken trash. Furthermore, just to get to the dock now is a serious hike.

Maybe I asked too much this year. Maybe I ask too much every year and some years I just get lucky. I tell myself there isn't going to be a test. I don't have to account for anything or prove myself to anyone. And summer certainly isn't held accountable, now is it? Summers come and summers go. I know this. At least my mind knows this. But somewhere deep in wherever it is I hold things dear, summer is supposed to be a certain way. Summer is when you wake up and the sun is already waiting for you. Summer is when you lie in the shade of an old tree and think about things for hours. Summer is unstructured afternoons browsing the library looking for delicious stories that take you far away. Summer is blue snow cones and fireworks. Summer is the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle and fresh cut grass. Summer is days so long the sun almost doesn't get to rest before it is up and shining again. Summer is chasing butterflies and picking clover to make unending green chains. Summer is for storing up enough solar energy to get you through the long winter. So, maybe summer 2000 didn't measure up to my tall expectations. I guess I'll survive. Here in mid-October, winter is already making some promises of its own. Crackling fires, hot chocolate, steaming bowls of chili, making snowballs until you can't feel your fingers anymore. The aroma of turkey baking. Reading books by the fire, cocooned in a polar fleece blanket.

We'll see. I'll report back on this next May.