Friday, June 1, 2012
The not-so-endless Days of Summer
From Western Illinois Family Magazine:
What time is it?
Almost a half past June.
Time for summer.
Time for lawn mower mornings and iced tea afternoons.
For tea-garden dreams and weed-choked realities.
For tomatoes and sweet corn and fresh green beans.
A time for lakes and pools and back yard sprinklers.
Time for lawn chairs, picnic baskets and swimming suits left to dry.
For morning walks and afternoon relaxing.
Time for little league baseball, swimming lessons and fold-over peanut butter sandwiches under a shady tree.
For gritty kid-made lemonade from the stand up the street.
Time to rush home from air-condiitoned offices for the last hot rays of a summertime day.
For bike rides at sunset and ice cream after dark.
Time to sit on front porches and call out to neighbors walking by.
For ball games on the radio and window fans whirling in the distant night.
For lightning bug roundups, spotlight tag and backyard camp-outs.
For long, cool drinks from a garden hose.
Time for mothers to call children in from dusky yards
A time to come home, sweaty and excited and wishing for more.
A time for gazing at moon-lit skies, waiting and hoping for one falling star.
For sharing stories and songs and tales of other-day memories.
It’s time, too, for plans and excitement and long-distance calls
For roadmaps and routes, detours, truck-stop delights and late-night arrivals.
Time for postcards and pictures of old dreams and new-found memories.
For gift-shop gadgets and t-shirts you’ll never wear again.
Time for sticky grandchild kisses and naps after noon.
For baths and books, bedtimes and prayers.
For cool, shady groves and hot, breezy beaches.
For camps and cottages and the bedroom at grandma's house.
For rowboats and fishing lines and the bike your dad rode when he was a kid.
For sunburn and mosquitoes and a tent that leaks when it rains.
For hot dogs that are never quite done, and marshmallow melting at the end of a stick.
For pine cones and seashells and other summertime treasures.
Time for secret backroad places, found and forgotten and remembered again.
Time for the roadside glory of brown-eyed Susans, cornflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace. For fields of color and hazy long days of sun-swept beauty.
Time for fields growing green. And for farmers wondering and worrying and wishing for rain.
Time for the golden days of summer. And time to think and dream and plan for summer days yet to come.
Because summertime passes. Moving fast. Moving slow.
But moving all the same.
Posted by John Sloan at 4:50 PM