It was one of the proudest moments of my youth. Which is why, no doubt, I've kept these pages through all the moves of the past thirty years. Here's the column:
August.
One more month of real warmth in the midwestern sun. One more month of fests and celebration. One more month 'til school. Looking around, I'm thinking I ought to prepare myself for some tearful goodbyes.
Free time. Sleep until noon and party to the wee hours of the morning. Soap operas. Game shows. Love Boat reruns. Hours of purposeless talk on the telephone. Sitting still just to feel the air conditioning rush over hot skin. Hopping in the car to go for a country drive. Shopping.
Vacations. The ocean. The mountains. Anywhere far enough away from home to make it different. The excitement of exploring a strange city. The peace of dawn in a beach town. Disneyland. Suitcases. Airplanes, busses, cars and feet. Packing to go home. Tears.
The sights. People watching, Caravans of kids on bicycles. A few million different shades of green. Flowers. Roller skates in the park. Convertibles. The ice cream man, watermelon and a barbecue pit. Lawn mowers, car washers and sun bathers.
The preparation. Back to school sales. New notebooks, unsharpened pencils, pens that still have caps. New clothes. Coats tumble out of storage, shorts tumble in. Hello sweaters, dusk before dinner and homework.
Feet are dragging. Brakes are screeching. None help stop August's mad rush towards September. The older the month, the faster the speed.
Pick up your feet. Don't try to stop the race, just settle back and enjoy the ride.
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