Despite being a northern woman with a body programmed to live above the 45th parallel, manifesting in a sturdy frame capable of enduring cold temperatures and a pale complexion that reddens in sunshine and wind, I look forward to summer like a kid. Or perhaps, to clarify, like my two children, whose bodies have been wound up like a spinning top throughout the spring thanks to the deluge of field trips (Mom, once again we’re going to Glacier National Park for school!) and activities (fourth graders performing “The Tempest?” Brilliant!). They simply can’t wait to be released into the celebrated months of summer break. I’m right alongside them, trying so hard to not be the “embarrassing parent” at the track meet, play, or field trip. As a woman born in the previous century, in the late 1900s, the excitement for summer and its fevered states of possibility, adventure, and freedom has yet to wane. Youngsters can gush about their hot girl or brat summers but I lived fearlessly through a slew of analogue summers in the 1990s.
Of course, come late August, I will plead for school to resume. Right now, I have Alice Cooper’s iconic “School’s Out for Summer” queued on my playlist (Alice Cooper is not embarrassing!) but come the dog days of summer I will likely launch a citizen’s initiative for year-round school. Call it something like “School’s in Session Forever.”
But not in early June. No, this is the time of year when the entire Flathead Valley pulses with new life and energy. Just look to the skies and see not only the returning birds but also the increase in air traffic. Instead of reading the snow report, I watch what’s happening at Logan Pass in Glacier. As I do at the start of every summer, I think I’ve perfected the perfect summer schedule: a balance of day camps, our annual trek to the family cabin in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, sufficient days left unscheduled and ripe for rafting or hiking or camping, depending on mood or weather. Bikes are tuned, helmets fit, and we’ve already swam in Foy’s Lake. Bedtimes will soon extend later into the evening because who really can tuck in when it’s light so late? Perhaps it’s just easier to keep the tent on the deck and live in the sleeping bag.
Lake swims replace bathtubs, beach towels snowpants, hammocks the desk, and s’mores are mandatory at any campfire.
There is both the impulse to do every single activity thrown our way: hike in Glacier, raft in the evening, and pitch a tent all in one long day or let the hours flow in the yard with the squirt guns close at hand, a tree fort to climb into when the day is too hot and a popsicle reward for reading a book (Parents also get popsicles for their daily reading log, too!). And, then there’s what I call summer kismet relationships. Friendships from the school year sprout a different branch when you get to show off your fort or run into each other at the lake. Sleepover invitations appear and parents, even embarrassing ones like me, are much more amenable to the idea of a campout on a weeknight. Unheard of any other time. Then there’s the chance for a new relationship to blossom: perhaps meeting a new friend at camp or campground. Those encounters could last a week or weekend, forged by skipping rocks or cannonballing into the lake. Or they can last even longer, encouraged along by the promise of becoming pen pals or entering a new grade together.
Unlike winter when we tend to hunker and hibernate, summer demands for us to venture outside and spend time together. It’s the season to share sunscreen or quietly point our neighbors to the best huck stash in the woods. We can ditch the noise of screens that work so well at keeping us at odds with each other and instead get to know our campsite neighbors, pass out marshmallows, and watch the sunset together. Kids aren’t the only ones who can form summer friendships; we can too. Perhaps that spark will happen at a trailhead or over leafy greens and sourdough at the farmer’s market. It’s all a part of the summer dream and it’s here for the taking.