My apologies to anyone who actually reads this for my 11 day absence. Busy, busy. Anyway, I've much to say about summer, but I realize that if I actually wait to cram it into a single entry, I will probably not get around to finishing it until fall! Therefore, I thought I would do it in several bits and pieces.
Even at my age, I am always amazed at the intensity of the seasons here in Chicago. The bitter cold and relative isolation of winter is such a stark contrast to the heat and humidity and intense socializing of summer. Although winter is somewhat broken up by a round of parties and get togethers around the holidays, it is a mighty long stretch between December and actual warm weather. So by the time summer arrives, people have been waiting for it in eager anticipation for what seems like forever. As I recall, Owen was anticipating getting his first summer dip in the backyard kiddie pool as far back as last October. I sometimes wonder if people in places like San Diego lose their appreciation for good weather, having to rarely, if ever, suffer through bad weather. Because the heat of summer here is essentially comprised of 12 or 13 too-brief weeks, people attempt to cram in an inordininate amount of activities - something we not so cleverly refer to around our house as "summer fun."
Because of the generally busy schedule and brevity of summer, things that don't qualify as summer fun sometimes strike me as monumental wastes of time. I was reminded of this at a recent gathering. This one was more obligation than summer fun on my agenda, but there I was, looking to make my own fun, embrace the moment, etc., when I spied a couple of the guests and kids tossing a football around. I grabbed Owen, who recently declared to me, brimming with young confidence after a successful Spring session learning to ride his bike with the training wheels, that he is now a "sportsguy", and we headed over to join in. Not only were we sort of spurned by the football toss participants, I was appalled when a little boy, 3 or 4, fell while running and began to cry, obviously hurting a little (or a lot, hard to tell), and his dad, instead of comforting him or even asking him how he was, yelled, in all seriousness, "c'mon Sally, get up." Whatever summer is, it is certainly much, much too short to spend any time whatsoever hanging around with dads who mockingly refer to their injured progeny as girls.
Even at my age, I am always amazed at the intensity of the seasons here in Chicago. The bitter cold and relative isolation of winter is such a stark contrast to the heat and humidity and intense socializing of summer. Although winter is somewhat broken up by a round of parties and get togethers around the holidays, it is a mighty long stretch between December and actual warm weather. So by the time summer arrives, people have been waiting for it in eager anticipation for what seems like forever. As I recall, Owen was anticipating getting his first summer dip in the backyard kiddie pool as far back as last October. I sometimes wonder if people in places like San Diego lose their appreciation for good weather, having to rarely, if ever, suffer through bad weather. Because the heat of summer here is essentially comprised of 12 or 13 too-brief weeks, people attempt to cram in an inordininate amount of activities - something we not so cleverly refer to around our house as "summer fun."
Because of the generally busy schedule and brevity of summer, things that don't qualify as summer fun sometimes strike me as monumental wastes of time. I was reminded of this at a recent gathering. This one was more obligation than summer fun on my agenda, but there I was, looking to make my own fun, embrace the moment, etc., when I spied a couple of the guests and kids tossing a football around. I grabbed Owen, who recently declared to me, brimming with young confidence after a successful Spring session learning to ride his bike with the training wheels, that he is now a "sportsguy", and we headed over to join in. Not only were we sort of spurned by the football toss participants, I was appalled when a little boy, 3 or 4, fell while running and began to cry, obviously hurting a little (or a lot, hard to tell), and his dad, instead of comforting him or even asking him how he was, yelled, in all seriousness, "c'mon Sally, get up." Whatever summer is, it is certainly much, much too short to spend any time whatsoever hanging around with dads who mockingly refer to their injured progeny as girls.
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