Forty-Eighth Summer

I hope you've read Seventeenth Summer.

You know, the one by Maureen Daly which she wrote around age 20 and was published way back in 1942. For me, summer isn't summer without rereading that lovely book.

I grabbed it from behind our bookcase glass today because I was nearing Bogged-Down-And-Bummed-Out by all those websites I gave you this morning. Those, and all the extra reading about our Country's corrupted food, what with all its chemicals and the whole microwave oven cooking being bad, bad thing. And I'm still kicking myself for allowing Tom and my parents, one night 20 years ago, to talk me into setting aside my concerns and agreeing to buy a microwave. I even remember sitting at the table with them and saying, "Well, ok. We can buy a microwave. But if it turns out to be dangerous, I will blame all of you."

Sigh. I so often obey that still, small voice and now I'm discouraged, sad, that I ignored it. And not just 20 years ago, either.

So that was how my day was going. What I needed? Some old-fashioned balance. So I snatched my nice old 1945 red copy and snuggled down on the wicker love seat on the porch and read some of my favorite portions:

"... The garden was still wet with last night's rain and the black earth was steaming in the sun, while between my toes the ground was soft and squishy--I had taken off my shoes and left them on the garden path so they wouldn't get caked with mud... The little tomato plants were laid flat against the ground from last night's downfall and there were puddles like blue glass in the hollows. A breeze, soft with a damp, fishy smell, blew in from Lake Winnebago about three blocks away. I was so busy thinking about the weather, the warm sun, and the sleek little onions that I didn't even hear Jack come up the back sidewalk."

...and ...

"My mother always lies down in the afternoons--at least, she has for the past three years, anyway. Right after lunch she went upstairs as always, turned down the chenille bedspread and drew the shades. Out on the side lawn in the shade of the house Kitty was sewing doll clothes and talking to herself in a quiet, little girl singsong. From Callahan's, across the back garden, I could hear the drone of the baseball game on the radio. All the little children were in taking their naps and already our street had settled into the quiet of the afternoon. I had to ask my mother soon for I knew that in a few moments she would be asleep."

Add to those a few more hundred such lovely passages which whisk you back to 1942, especially when you know that Maureen's book was quite autobiographical.

In fact, I used to almost cry when she'd describe going to Pete's in the evenings, an old diner on the lake with even a beach for swimming. I wanted a Pete's so badly. And well, now I have a Pete's, though it's a hamburger place on a river and there is no swimming. But it's quaint and oh-so-cool and time travels me back to the 1950's every time. 

I'll take it.

As I said, I hope you've read Seventeenth Summer. There's a reason it's had a bazillion re-printings since its young author first blew people away with her gorgeous prose 65 years ago.



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