In Praise of Summer Memories

After the long and wistful post about my dear Jessie, I had to come back with a memory that perhaps other boomers share. Summer tailgate picnics at the beach. Lake Winnipesaukee has a white sand bottom, and Governor's Island, when I was growing up, had a white sand beach. Pure white and glittering. Back then, we even had enormous white pines, whose boughs swept the water. When we were overtired and over-heated from so much sun, at times we were sent to their shade, where the sand and air were at least ten degrees cooler.

Many weekend days were spent almost entirely there. Two tennis courts, rest rooms, and a drinking fountain. It was before the clubhouse and before someone decided we needed MORE sunny beach and that lawns would be a good idea.

We pooled resources, and the infamous Oreo™ vs Hydrox™ cookie wars began. MY family liked Hydrox™ because the filling had more flavor. Judy's family, pathetic as they were, liked Oreos™ because there was MORE filling. As children we took great delight in stealing one another's cookies--just to test the theories, mind you. We all had fruit--grapes and plums were always there, then whatever fruit was seasonal: strawberries, then blueberries, then peaches. Of course we also had the mayo vs. Miracle Whip™ debates. My mother threatened to banish me because I really, really preferred mayonnaise, particularly Helmann's REAL Mayonnaise™. There were deviled eggs always, from someone or other. Balogna, ham, and good old P,B, & J. Potato chips--yes, it was Wise™ vs Lays™. Occasionally we all had the store brand, and there was unversal agreement that they were wholly unacceptable.

The dads would play GI tennis, wearing bathing suits on the courts; lobbing, spinning, and being pretty loose about the whole deal. During the annual tournament, one year, my dad and Jude's dad, Ted, were the reigning doubles champs. They were playing against a couple of dads who were younger and who were quite serious about winning. My dad had a famous Australian twist serve he'd perfected in the war. He hated to run, you see, so he loved to put spin on the ball and wear his younger opponents out. The other pair were getting quite sick of my dad's and Ted's successful efforts. These guys wore WHITES and resented the bathing trunks. My dad's response to this creeping, as he put it, pretension, was to buy a matching trunks and shirt set--blue and white paisley. Ted, for his part, never wore socks, and always had a paint-stained tee-shirt with his tan trunks.

The final straw was when dad's serve bounced backwards and literally into the net. The opposing receiver turned bright red and threw his racket on the ground, saying that the "Old jerk couldn't just serve like any self-respecting player, but had to make a show of everything."

My dad and Ted looked at one another, and Ted made a sweeping bow toward my father to take the stage. Dad walked up to the net, hand outstretched and said, "It means so much to you, we give you the match. You win. We're done."

The guy looked at him as if Dad were a Martian. "You can't do that! It's a f-ing tournament!"

"Yes, and you may have the trophy. Ted and I really don't care one way or another." And they walked off the court, shedding sneakers and shirts, to run into the water and play with us. I was about twelve and I don't think either Judy or I ever felt prouder of our dads. I remember the guys who won were livid, but none of our tailgate set cared. They swore. We ate and played.

Sometimes after lunch, when our folks were trying to keep us out of the water, Ted and Dad would dig us "cars" in the sand, putting trashcan covers in our hands for the steering wheels. Of course the barrel lids were bigger than we were, but who cared? Long after the official end of lunch, there would be endless fights over who had the last cookie, who got more grapes, whose chips were saltiest. Our folks would sing horribly off key on purpose. Sometimes, for special, they'd grill us hot dogs on the enormous stone grills near the water's edge, rather than go home for supper. Some days we spent all of Saturday there, right into evening.

We did not need summer camp. Our lives were endless summer camp days, only we were in charge of the games. Jude's mom taught us to swim. My mom taught us to dive. She and Phi, Jude's aunt, did the Sunday crossword under the white pine, in pen... together. Daddy taught us to play tennis when we were five. Tiny, in our flip flops, we'd stand with the enormous rackets, Daddy about five feet away.

"Hit the ball, Jetty. Just hit the ball."

I'd flop the racket and connect, vaguely.

He would cheer, then tap the ball to Jude. When Ted died, he filled in for him, when Jude went off to college, playing with her in the father-daughter games, then years later, for the GI games. Jude and Dad won the mixed doubles championship, the last year my dad every played GI tennis. He figured that was a good time to stop.

The days were long, the weeks lasted forever. Summer ended in a blink of an eye. Somehow the memories of the endless Saturdays with all our families staying until sunset, then wandering back up to Judy's family's "camp" stay clear for me. Every sound lingers in the ear; every laugh echoes, and the sounds of our parents playing Michigan rummy as Jude and I drifted off to sleep tucked above the great room, door open, in her nest of a room. The night sounds of water against rocks, the rocks full of whatever the day had brought.

***

I had to go to a family funeral last weekend, so I had to be back at Jude's for a time. We had some moments alone this time, and we laughed again about just how far a MILE is to row in a leaky boat. More on that particular summer another time. I did my water exercises and watched Mount Washington again, as I felt all remnants of the sorrow of the day before, slip away with the waves. Jude and I ate grilled cheese sandwiches and grapes. I had brought blueberries and she already had the plums.

The loon was out and about this past weekend. It called.

The Lake answered.