Not Letting Go Without a Fight

I am not one of those people who are all fuzzy-sweater on the inside to greet the changing of the season. I am a summer person, always have been, always will. I'm sure it comes from growing up in North Idaho where the summer is a mere blip on the radar of weather. When it comes; it's here immediately. You often hear Idahoans talking about the fact that there is no acclimatizing for our poor winterized souls, we go straight from 37 degrees to 80. It is truly a bit of a shock, but who gives a rip? Nothing says summer like 65 and sunny with most of the town's population roaming around half naked. Big deal if it's really just late spring weather. So elated are we to shed the multi-layers that I want to go on strike against cruel mother nature, how dare she make me cover up my Coppertone tan!

The long days and nights are shrinking and as they do they are rusting the leaves. I have a keen eye for that-I noticed a couple of leaves on someones yard about a month ago and ran straight for the beach. Today was 95 degrees and I lounged around in the blazing golden heaven for hours upon hours. Yet, I feel cheated. Is there a way for me to cram extra hours filled with sunny memories into my suitcase overflowing with fleeces, Sorrel's, mittens, hats, scarves, wool socks, jeans loose enough to allow long underwear to fit under, earmuffs and puffy coats?

I guess the best way to snuggle down with these warm sparkly thoughts is to wrap them close to my body, maybe under a layer of cocoa butter, then hold them close and cover them up with the endless layers of winter protection. Then when the snow is up to my waist and school is closed for the day, I can stick my nose inside my collar and close my eyes to breath in the sweetness of my sacred summer.

I am now going to officially blame my mother for all this. Growing up we would spend every waking hour at Rocky Point. We were usually the first ones there with our cooler of snacks fully stocked, then after swimming in the lake all day, we'd be one of the last families to leave. I remember my skin would have a new weight to it as if heavier from all the water I'd absorbed over all the hours. She'd tell us to get out of the water, that we were water logged and it was time to go home. I'm not sure I've been water logged like that in my adult age, but my kids certainly have.

*The symptoms of being water logged is an unrational reaction to the fact that it's time to leave, the uncontrollable urge to show your mom "just one more thing", hair resembling seaweed, and the failure to identify that the sun is hanging just barely above the trees.

My mom would lounge on the pebbly sand and chat with friends, take a long swim out to the logs, and usually take a nap. Every year she had a golden toasted tan. I loved that we were never in a hurry to get home like so many of the other families that would flit in and out throughout the day. We had nothing but time and when you're a kid time means nothing.

Now I'm the mom on the beach into late September. It's usually early October because the kids and I love to brag into the winter about how we got in in April and then the last swim was in October. We always remember the dates too, just in case someone doesn't believe us. At least I'm not alone in my battle against the slipping away of summer. For now I will not think about it too hard, mostly because I have to get to bed. We are, of course, meeting my mom at the lake early.

*Photo is from the 70's@ Plummer Point