Endless essays

"Are you going to have to write about this?" I asked the curly-haired boy by my side. "You know, 'What I did on my summer vacation' and all?"

"I hope not," he said, shaking the mop of curls and I tried to remember if I had ever actually been asked to write about my summer vacation.

Growing up, I didn't have much to say. I spent a week at camp every summer, generally the week including the 4th of July. No fireworks and it always rained. Two weeks with Dad. The arts and crafts festival in August. Swimming in the pool at the Holiday Inn before mom remarried and the country club after.

There was the one summer with trips to North Dakota and Minnesota and North Dakota again, the summer I threw up at the geographical center of North America and we went to see the giant Paul Bunyan and Babe. The summer I worked for my first pair of colored contacts: Blue, like the ox.

One summer we lived in Florida. I learned how to swim and nearly died of fright when the Haunted Mansion ride broke down with ghosts flying overhead. Another summer, we lived in New York, watched MTV and played poker. I was seven. That was the summer of the divorce, Scott's broken leg and a jungle gym.

Other than a few key events, though, my memory blurred into a mishmash of stubbed toes and bikes, swimming and swinging and sunning. Nancy Drew books. Friends on vacation. Endless summer days.

I never really thought much of my summers in those days. I didn't go anywhere. I didn't do anything. Now, I could fill volumes with words about splinters and sunburns and spinning until I made myself sick on the homemade swing, a bit of wood and a long nylon rope hung from the branch of a tree in my backyard. The weeping willow next door. The tickle of grass. The smell of ozone before rain. Salty sweat. Tar bubbling from the railroad ties that served as steps. I would give anything for a bit of those summers and an essay that recalled how I spent them.

Twenty-two years separate me from my young curly cousin; I identify more with his parents than the boy himself. His summers include a cabin and boat and trips with his parents. An iPod touch. A Wii. He brought a friend to DC, a vacation buddy, because he doen't have siblings.

I share my memories with my brother and sister and sometimes we pull them out and compare, fill in the blanks, and jiggle the pieces together to form something bigger than ourselves.

These days, we don't really take summer vacations. None of us. Not as such. I just live my life, life and work and the things in between.

Weddings in Jamaica. Weekends in Harper's Ferry. Fruit salads and ice cream cones. Spinning on swings until I make myself sick. Tours of the Pentagon and the Capitol with visiting family. I spent my lunch hour walking around the Smithsonian's Folklife Festival and plan as long as it lasts. I will work from home on Friday so I can visit Eastern Market on the day it reopens.

Rhubarb and strawberries. I have stilts in my closet. Bandaids for my knees. An ice cream party from Edy's. Thunderstorms. Long walks.

In a few weeks, I'll be in Oregon. Then Switzerland. Then a new place on the Hill that I'll make my own. In a few years, I might look back on these days and marvel at my endless summer days. (For now, they feel fleeting.) In the meantime, I plan to write every day about what I do on my summer vacation that isn't a vacation at all.

My cousin's missing out.


Tag: Summer Vacation Family