Summertime memories. Everyone has them. Some are good like falling face first into a cold slice of watermelon, performing flips off of rope swings dangling over a creek, or skipping rocks across a lake. Others are not so good like a badly stubbed toe, being stung by yellow jackets, horrible sunburns, or just being so hot during August that even a plunge into the pool, creek or nearby lake provides only momentary relief.
What is the one memory that holds all the magic of summer for you? What memory instantly transports you back to being a kid once more? Back to a simpler place and time. Last week, I asked folks around our small town this very question. Our answers are below.
The elderly lady at the corner antique store said her fondest memory of summer was hand-churned ice cream. Each Saturday morning she sat with her mother on the back porch of their small white clapboard house while making ice cream. They would talk about everything and nothing as they turned the handle on the side of a well-worn wooden bucket. Depending on the time of the season they would add peaches, strawberries, or blueberries to the creamy blend in the wooden bucket to make best ice cream for miles around.
What brings back the best memories of summer for the local auto mechanic was surprising: Werther’s candy. Whenever he went fishing with his father, his dad would bring a roll of the cream-filled caramel hard candy. They spent hours fishing from canoes, small boats, even standing in waist-deep waters while wearing waders. Regardless of the catch, or lack thereof, each trip was always considered a success because of the time spent with each other and the empty roll of Werther’s at the end of each expedition.
Both the barista at the corner coffee shop and a patron enjoying a triple cappuccino gave the same answer. Their fondest summer memory was catching lightning bugs. They recalled cool summer nights spent joyfully chasing fireflies all over their backyards. Each precious catch was added to a small Mason jar with a tightly sealed lid.
When a magical 10 were contained, the jars were placed on their nightstands at bedtime where the captors tried to keep a watchful eye throughout the night. Unfortunately, with the jar so tightly sealed, none survived captivity. But their yards provided an endless supply and jars were filled many times each summer.
For yours truly, the one thing that triggers both good and bad memories of summer growing up at 110 Flamingo Street is the same: sand. Sand was present whether I was landing face first into the far sandy bank of Cripple Creek after performing a mis-timed rope swing flip, making a diving catch on the beach, building sandcastles, or biting into a dropped peanut butter sandwich at a picnic and hearing the grinding crunch. Sand triggers some of my fondest childhood memories of summertime.
Next week The Wife and I will be taking our two granddaughters to the beach for our first family vacation together. Little One and Sweet Caroline will swim in the ocean, be chased by waves, land face first trying to chase a fleeing beach ball, enjoy building sandcastles with a saltwater-filled moat and, at the end of each day, fall quickly to sleep. Dreams will be filled with their first real memories of summer. And their memories will be filled with sand.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
