ECHOES OF DISTANT SUMMERS

    Note:

I re-post this at the end of every summer.
Why?
Because I like it.   Jon

 Dwelling continuously in the past is for idle dreamers. Occasionally visiting the past can be nourishment for a hungry soul.

 

There are times when I can close my eyes and make the distance of years melt away......

..... and suddenly I'm on the beach again, young and exuberant, immersed in the drowsy haze of a summer afternoon where the silver glare of sky and water mingle as one, where the soft sand burns my bare feet, and the salty scent of the ocean intoxicates my senses. The soothing, eternal roar of the waves seem to echo like the song of a shell pressed against my ear.

 I cherish those summers of distant memories, because now - - in the present purgatory of a different time and place, in the subtle shadows of my rapidly dwindling existence - - I fully appreciate their value. 

Memories often tend to assume halcyon proportions and our distant pasts sometimes seem better than they really were. Careful scrutiny of my past, however, confirms the fact that it did indeed harbor the best times of my life.

There is a fierce pang of sadness wedged in the heart of my memories, because what I miss most is the innocence and the optimism - - two precious things that I will never have again.

I was fortunate enough to have divided my youthful summers between the west coast and the east coast. 

I lived in Southern California which, in my biased opinion, was the greatest place on earth. I also spent summers on the east coast, the Jersey shore, where most of my relatives were. I was particularly partial to the Pacific Ocean, because it was my territory - - but the Atlantic had its own mesmeric powers. The Pacific - always blue, placid, inviting. The Atlantic - greenish gray, remote, moody.

 West Coast

In California, in Orange County, we lived less than five miles from the beach and it was an integral part of my life. I was well-acquainted with all the beach communities up the coast:
Laguna, Newport, Huntington, Bolsa Chica, Sunset, Seal Beach. 

(Seal Beach was my secret favorite).

Huntington Beach was the closest. Sometimes I'd ride my bike there. Occasionally I'd hitch a ride. All the kids hitched on Beach Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway.....long ago when things seemed safe.

 The Huntington Beach Pier

Long, hot summer days languishing in the sand at Huntington, absorbing the perpetual sunshine. Eating corn dogs & "strips" (fried tortilla strips with a mild hot sauce). Drinking Cactus Coolers (an orange-pineapple soft drink that I think still exists). Always swimming. Sometimes surfing. Enduring sunburns and jellyfish stings. 

Collecting shells. Sand Dollars were always the greatest treasures.

Midnight bonfires, moonlit walks on the beach when the Grunion were running. Haunting the deserted pier at Seal Beach after midnight. Sailing with friends at Newport Beach on languid, carefree afternoons. Visiting Balboa Island and Catalina Island.

Later, when I had wheels, I'd drive to the beach or go with friends. Day or night, it was my most sacred refuge. 


Sudden flashback:
Driving with my best friend Mike in his red convertible Mustang along Pacific Coast Highway at sunset on the 4th of July. Stereo blaring, the evening alive with magic. Dazzling explosions of fireworks igniting every mile of the shore. The air warm and salty, heavy with the pungent sulfuric smell of  smoke.

  Years later I was best man at Mike's wedding. Marriage inevitably has a way of severing friendships and expunging the exuberance of youth. We lost contact long ago. The carefree days linger like taunting ghosts at the edge of our memories....

The Jersey Shore

East Coast

The east coast was always a blessed escape from unrelenting family problems and my father's insane violence.

I loved the colorful, comforting chaos of being alone in New York City: walking barefooted in Central Park, discovering museums, visiting Lincoln Center. Getting drunk in a sleazy Staten Island bar with my cousin Nancy and her husband Jim. Drinking was a new novelty to me then ( Nancy wasn't fond of drinking, but Jim and I got smashed).

Now, Nancy is a widow.......Jim is gone.......

Horseback riding with my cousin Nancy on early August evenings in the balmy New Jersey countryside. Boating along the Jersey coast and into New York Harbor (several of my relatives had boats). Watching the moon rise from the water in a sultry surrealistic haze. Long walks on the beach at Sandy Hook. Exploring the boardwalks at Asbury Park and Seaside Heights.

Asbury Park, New Jersey
 

Our once-large family has now dwindled drastically. The relatives are all deceased, except for my cousins. Friends have vanished. And lovers. All those whom I truly cherished only remain in faded ghost memories, where distant voices still echo with warmth and laughter......

....and those golden summers linger tenderly in the recesses of my mind:  carefree times when the invincibility of youth deceived us into believing that life is eternal - -

- - where distant memories echo like the taunting pulse of a delicate whisper in a seashell pressed to my ear.

Jon V.        2018

ECHOES OF DISTANT SUMMERS

  Note:

I re-post this at the end of every summer.
Why?
Because I like it.   Jon

 Dwelling continuously in the past is for idle dreamers. Occasionally visiting the past can be nourishment for a hungry soul.

 

There are times when I can close my eyes and make the distance of years melt away......

..... and suddenly I'm on the beach again, young and exuberant, immersed in the drowsy haze of a summer afternoon where the silver glare of sky and water mingle as one, where the soft sand burns my bare feet, and the salty scent of the ocean intoxicates my senses. The soothing, eternal roar of the waves seem to echo like the song of a shell pressed against my ear.

 I cherish those summers of distant memories, because now - - in the present purgatory of a different time and place, in the subtle shadows of my rapidly dwindling existence - - I fully appreciate their value. 

Memories often tend to assume halcyon proportions and our distant pasts sometimes seem better than they really were. Careful scrutiny of my past, however, confirms the fact that it did indeed harbor the best times of my life.

There is a fierce pang of sadness wedged in the heart of my memories, because what I miss most is the innocence and the optimism - - two precious things that I will never have again.

I was fortunate enough to have divided my youthful summers between the west coast and the east coast. 

I lived in Southern California which, in my biased opinion, was the greatest place on earth. I also spent summers on the east coast, the Jersey shore, where most of my relatives were. I was particularly partial to the Pacific Ocean, because it was my territory - - but the Atlantic had its own mesmeric powers. The Pacific - always blue, placid, inviting. The Atlantic - greenish gray, remote, moody.

 West Coast

In California, in Orange County, we lived less than five miles from the beach and it was an integral part of my life. I was well-acquainted with all the beach communities up the coast:
Laguna, Newport, Huntington, Bolsa Chica, Sunset, Seal Beach. 

Huntington Beach was the closest. Sometimes I'd ride my bike there. Occasionally I'd hitch a ride. All the kids hitched on Beach Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway.....long ago when things seemed safe.

 The Huntington Beach Pier

Long, hot summer days languishing in the sand at Huntington, absorbing the perpetual sunshine. Eating corn dogs & "strips" (fried tortilla strips with a mild hot sauce). Drinking Cactus Coolers (an orange-pineapple soft drink that I think still exists). Always swimming. Sometimes surfing. Enduring sunburns and jellyfish stings. 


Midnight bonfires, moonlit walks on the beach when the Grunion were running. Haunting the deserted pier at Seal Beach after midnight. Sailing with friends at Newport Beach on languid, carefree afternoons. Visiting Balboa Island and Catalina Island.

Later, when I had wheels, I'd drive to the beach or go with friends. Day or night, it was my most sacred refuge. 


Sudden flashback:
Driving with my best friend Mike in his red convertible Mustang along Pacific Coast Highway at sunset on the 4th of July. Stereo blaring, the evening alive with magic. Dazzling explosions of fireworks igniting every mile of the shore. The air warm and salty, heavy with the pungent sulfuric smell of  smoke.

  Years later I was best man at Mike's wedding. Marriage inevitably has a way of severing friendships and expunging the exuberance of youth. We lost contact long ago. The carefree days linger like taunting ghosts at the edge of our memories....

The Jersey Shore

East Coast

The east coast was always a blessed escape from unrelenting family problems and my father's insane violence.

I loved the colorful, comforting chaos of being alone in New York City: walking barefooted in Central Park, discovering museums, visiting Lincoln Center. Getting drunk in a sleazy Staten Island bar with my cousin Nancy and her husband Jim. Drinking was a new novelty to me then ( Nancy wasn't fond of drinking, but Jim and I got smashed).

Horseback riding with my cousin Nancy on early August evenings in the balmy New Jersey countryside. Boating along the Jersey coast and into New York Harbor (several of my relatives had boats). Watching the moon rise from the water in a sultry surrealistic haze. Long walks on the beach at Sandy Hook. Exploring the boardwalks at Asbury Park and Seaside Heights.

Asbury Park, New Jersey
 

Our once-large family has now dwindled drastically. The relatives are all dead, except for my cousins. Friends have vanished. And lovers. All those whom I truly cherished only remain in faded ghost memories, where distant voices still echo with warmth and laughter......

....and those golden summers linger tenderly in the recesses of my mind:  carefree times when the invincibility of youth deceived us into believing that life is eternal - -

- - where distant memories echo like the taunting pulse of a delicate whisper in a seashell pressed to my ear.

Jon V.

REACHING BACK

I want to reach back in time and retrieve those summers that I knew long ago. In my fertile and unblemished childhood mind, those summers seemed to span a blissful course of carefree eternity - where time and purpose were momentarily suspended and the burden of reality was suppressed.

Those were the golden times, when minds weren't stifled and tainted with the toxic addiction of the Internet, video games, cell phones, and social media.

Those were times of delicious normalcy - - when plague masks were unheard of, and there were no inane restrictions to destroy the body and ravage the soul. The flu and the common cold ran their natural course, without the perpetual indoctrination of pandemic panic.

Summers were accepted as being hot - a natural annual occurrence - which had nothing to do with frantic alarmist pronouncements of climate change and an eventual fiery Armageddon. 

Swimmers and beachcombers savored the intoxicating sunshine without the impending prediction of eventually contracting skin cancer and suffering the agony of eternal doom.

The world at that time projected a satisfying sense of normalcy and rationality.

I want to resurrect the times when sun tea was the best ice tea ever consumed and back yard barbecues didn't cause world-wide pollution and global damnation.

I want to savor the simple summer childhood pastimes and diversions that I once knew:
Swimming, biking, roller skating. Tree climbing and jumping rope. Languishing in secret shady places while absorbed in the luxury of reading books.
Indulging in idle hours of board games: checkers, Chinese checkers, games such as Monopoly, Why, and Clue.
Staying up later than childhood restrictions allowed - being scared witless with the unholy exchange of ghost stories.
 Listening to a transistor radio under the covers in bed, during the hours when you should have been sleeping.

Childhood summers were absolute perfection in the biased luxury of what we choose to remember.

In grim reality, nothing is perfect.

In the sacred portal of our selective memory,
perfection lingers with unabashed persistence.

Cheers, Jon

WILD RIDE

 

Note:
I wrote this several years ago and have been reposting it at the beginning of every summer season. I think it's worth the ride.....

My cousin Nancy and I are the same age. Well, actually I'm five months older. Our mothers were sisters (both now deceased). Nancy grew up in New Jersey and I was raised in Southern California. Despite the span of three thousand miles, we always shared a close bond - more like siblings than cousins.

Now - at this late point in our lives - we both live in Tennessee (only a few miles from each other), and enjoy remembering the youthful adventures we shared.

(my hair must have been plastered with Brylcreem)

 Sixteen years old

I always savored the summers that I spent in New Jersey, staying with my aunt and uncle. It was like a prison break - - being away from my father and all the trauma, chaos, and stress he constantly caused. The freedom was exhilarating.

My cousin Nancy and I shared an inherent knack for courting adventure and getting into various degrees of trouble. On this subject alone I could write a book.

This story doesn't particularly pertain to trouble, but rather it's about a ride I'll never forget. We were sixteen years old that summer.

Nancy always loved horses and is an expert rider. She rode very frequently when she lived in New Jersey. The closest I ever got to a horse was watching Gunsmoke on TV.

It was inevitable that she'd ask me to go riding. I suppressed my intense apprehension and summoned the paltry portion of macho that I kept somewhere with my alter ego.

"I'd love to!" I lied, while visions of a premature obituary raced through my head - Headline: 
California Kid Clobbered in Colossal Riding Catastrophe.

My fear was momentarily sidetracked when we got to the stables and Nancy accidentally locked her keys in the trunk of the car. Actually, it wasn't her car. It was her parent's treasured '69 Camaro.

After exhausting every conceivable attempt to extract the keys without damaging the car, we resorted to one final desperate ploy: removing the back seat.

  I can't recall exactly how we extracted the back seat- - but we did get help from one of the young workers at the stable. The seat finally popped out and we had access to the trunk.

Putting the back seat together again was a challenge worthy of minds far more sophisticated than our own. After an hour of agony (or so it seemed) we haphazardly completed the task.

  Our inept handiwork didn't go unnoticed. Ever since then, every time the car was used, the back seat would slowly but steadily pop out and had to be forcefully pushed back into place. My aunt and uncle never knew why.

  But I've sidetracked my story.

We eventually made it to the riding trails, and I  managed to mount a horse. In consideration of my apprehension and less than minimal riding experience, I was given a horse aptly named Mule. To say that he had been ridden by General George McClellan during the Civil War might be a slight exaggeration - but nevertheless, Mule was undeniably ancient. He was slow, gentle, and clockwork predictable - - which suited my pathetically timid and sissified nature.

I won't dwell on the painful saddle sores that inflicted my tender virgin ass during our early evening rides. I will say that I eventually got used to Mule and immensely enjoyed our excursions on the trail.....

....until the fateful day when Mule was suddenly incapacitated. I don't recall why he was unavailable, but I vividly remember the substitute horse with which I was provided. His name was Pal - - and a more inappropriate name for a miserable mount was never devised.

Pal was not only mercilessly stubborn, he could instantly sense that an inexperienced sissy was in the saddle. And he was determined to make my equestrian experience as unbearable as possible.

He stopped when I wanted to go. He went when I tried to stop. He deliberately maneuvered his stride into an unpredictable clumsy pace, which elevated the pain of my saddle sores to new levels.

Halfway along the trail was a house where an old lady lived who hated horses and their riders. On previous occasions, every time Nancy and I rode by, she would inevitably come out of the house and yell at us to keep away from her flowers.

She had a large and very impressive-looking flowerbed at the front of her property. We did our best to avoid it at all costs.

Pal, as if eagerly sensing an invitation of danger, stopped by the flowerbed and began nibbling the begonias. When I frantically tried to pull him away, he ventured farther into the vast roadside bouquet and greedily chomped every flower within reach. I panicked.

"Nancy!" I yelled. "What should I do?"

My cousin jumped off her horse and took my reins - but Pal was obstinate, even with an expert. He refused to obey Nancy and wouldn't budge from the midst of the fragrant (and tasty) blooms.

Fortunately, the old lady didn't seem to be around. I figured either she wasn't home, or she saw us from the window and dropped dead.  

After Pal had his fill of flowers, I desperately tried to steer him back to the trail but he had other ideas. He headed for the open door of the old lady's garage and went right in! Fear turned into shock as Pal and I were suddenly occupying the empty place next to a big dusty Oldsmobile.

It took a Herculean amount of persuasive power to finally, somehow, maneuver Pal back onto the trail. After completely trampling the flowerbed and touring the garage, he seemed a little more calm and agreeable. I actually felt confident enough to retrieve a cigarette from my pocket and light up ("smokes" were one of our secret pleasures).

When Pal suddenly stopped and reared up on his hind legs, I choked on my smoke and realized I was in heap big trouble. Before I could get my breath, the horse did a quick about face and --Hi-Yo Silver!-- we were off!

In my wildest cowboy fantasy, I never dreamed a horse could gallop so fast. We were racing back towards the stables at breakneck speed - bounding over rocks and ruts, leaping over bushes, and zooming past dangerously close trees.

"Nancy!" I shrieked in an alarmingly high falsetto. "How do I stop him?"

Nancy was now very far behind me, but I could hear her shouting "Pull the reins! Pull the reins!"

I pulled - and the harder I pulled, the faster Pal went. I was eventually pulling so hard that his head was all the way back and I could see unwholesome details of his dentures.

The cigarette blew out of my mouth, my feet slipped from the stirrups, and I was clutching Pal for dear life as I repeatedly ducked to avoid being decapitated by low overhanging tree branches.   

My glasses (this was before I got contact lenses) were precariously perched halfway under my nose.

When I glanced ahead (through blurred double vision) and saw the tall fence that surrounded the stables, my pathetically brief life flashed before my eyes. If I wasn't so terrified I would have screamed - -  my scream was merely a silent gesture of farewell.

I opened my eyes after enduring a hard and sudden thump and saw a cloud of dust. We had successfully leaped over the fence and were now galloping toward the barn. I didn't have time to thank God that the door was open. In another instant we were inside, in total darkness, and Pal didn't stop until we nearly plunged into the opposite wall.

I slid off of that horse onto skinny legs that were weaker than two strands of over-cooked spaghetti. My knobby knees were knocking. I was shaking like a pansy in a zephyr and it took all my effort to emerge from the barn.

Nancy was there - - unquestionably concerned but erupting in convulsive laughter. After realizing that I was still alive and reasonably intact, I started laughing, too. 

If any event in my life could have been captured on video, that ride with Pal would be my first choice. It was far beyond priceless.

Did it dissuade me from ever riding again? Not much. A few days later Nancy and I were on the trail again - - and I was safely back on Mule. 

 Nancy still rides here in Tennessee.

So far, I haven't. And probably never will. 

Cheers, Jon

 

THUNDERHEADS ON THE EDGE OF AUGUST

....and overnight - subtly, as if not to be noticed - August arrived.

Late on Tuesday, just at dusk, thunderstorms began blowing in. I ran outside to close the windows on the car - - wearing nothing but my underwear and cowboy boots (I added that solely for cheap visual effect).

When I glanced up at the sky I was aghast (yes, aghast) at how dramatic the clouds looked. Massive thunderheads were eerily illuminated by the setting sun. 

Naturally, I ran inside and grabbed my El Cheapo digital camera. Despite the fact that it was nearly dark and lightning was zapping unnervingly close, I managed to get a few shots.

It looked much more impressive in real, but I suppose my efforts are sufficient.
I didn't notice until after I took the first photo that the rising moon is visible between the clouds.

I also never realized how many mosquito bites one can incur while standing outside in your skivvies.

The first three pics were taken in the back "yard" at the edge of the forest.
The fourth (above) is a view from the front.

So here I am, long after midnight, on Thursday - - the first of August:
mild, humid, blissfully lonely. The lightning bugs have dwindled to a paltry few. The forest is alive with the incessant sound of katydids. 

Owls occasionally call from nearby treetops. I love to hear them. And a faraway chorus of wild dogs howl and yelp as they meander through the midnight hours. 
The dogs sound different from the coyotes - who make demonic, unearthly shrieks and wails.

Just another insignificant summer night - where a thousand random thoughts weave restlessly through the dark, isolated passages of my mind.....

STURM UND DRANG

What to write about?
My mind gravitates towards the controversial and the illegal.
Better stay in neutral territory, Jon, and avoid being shot.

I'm in one of my notorious dark moods - - my Heathcliff Mode, but there's no need for alarm. As with all of my emotional storms, the clouds will eventually pass.....

Was that a plausible ploy to talk about the weather? 

When I first moved to Tennessee the summers were mild, brief, not too humid. A pleasant change from the blistering eight-month summers in California and West Texas.

This Tennessee summer, however, is a persistent bitch: broiling hot every day with high humidity. My house absorbs heat like a sardine can on a campfire.
Sorry. It's the only analogy I could think of.

If it's 85 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside, it's 150 degrees in the house (only slight exaggeration).

I no longer have central air, like I did in Texas. I have three ceiling fans and a couple of floor fans.
When I first bought this place there were two window air conditioners but I removed them immediately. I'd rather die of the heat than have those gigantic, unsanitary monstrosities hanging from the windows.

Anyway, this summer has been plagued with eternal humidity and endless storms. Not to mention mosquitoes, flies, and furious wasps.
Thanks to the frequent torrential downpours, the weeds and brush on my property have grown to Jules Vern proportions.

This is only a very timid sample of what it looks like (above).
I've been valiantly attacking it with shears and clippers - - but what I really need is a tractor, a plow, a dozen field hands....and Divine Intervention.

I managed to "clear" a small part of my front "yard" (above) but almost passed out from the intense humidity.

Late yesterday afternoon there was another dramatic storm.

The storm clouds gathered quickly.

And after the storm there was a dramatic amber glow (photo taken from back porch)

What else is there to tell?

I've been eating lots of hamburgers, corn on the cob, and ice cream. And cantaloupe.

This probably doesn't look too fancy or appetizing, but it tastes great.

I always cut the cantaloupe into chunks, then refrigerate it. It's really sweet and refreshing......

.......kinda like me, only better.

 

Hot Hot Hot

Is it hot enough for you, Jon?

No, I like it hotter. I can't wait 'till I burn in hell.

It has been excruciatingly hot with killer humidity. The air is liquid. The 95 degree weather seems cool compared to the 495 degree inferno in the house. The ceiling fans and floor fans are useless. Clothing is optional. I've worn nothing but underwear all week.
Jockey briefs, in case you're curious.

The muggy mornings are heavy with fog.

 The front edge of my property where the road runs by. Or walks by.

It hadn't rained here in four days - which is considered a severe drought in Tennessee. Last night at sunset there was a weird thunderstorm. Mucho thunder but not much rain. The storm intensified the humidity.

 Storm viewed from front porch

I sometimes let my cats out on the front porch to get air. I keep it blocked off so they can't get down the steps and escape (the porch isn't ground-level, it's way up high). 

Just as the storm started, Scruffy escaped (which proves she's feeling better). I initially thought she went back in the house but I couldn't find her anywhere.....

.....so I braved the Biblical bolts of lightning and went outside to embark on an intense feline search. 

It didn't take long. She came running when I called her - wet and disheveled but safe.

Did I ever mention the weeds?

...he says with a smirk....

It's impossible to control them because of the constant rain. They're not exactly weeds. They're more like mega monsters.

You don't believe me? Check these out.

   Two acres of them. Many of the weeds are taller than myself, and I'm 6' 1".

So - despite my bad back and acute lethargy - I took advantage of the recent "dry" days and tackled the weeds. Solo and by hand. 

I only have one tiny lawn mower, which looks like it was made by Mattel. It took one glance at the weeds and hid under some pansies.

I used to have a much bigger mower but one of the wheels was broken so I left it in Texas.

I had absolutely nothing to assault the weeds with but an old rusty pair of shears.

 Every morning before dawn, I went out and assaulted the weeds. The humidity was devastating and - even at that ungodly hour - the wasps relentlessly attacked me.

I somehow managed to chop most of them down to about two feet. Late in the day, when the moisture dried up, I sprayed mercilessly with weed killer. 

 The front part of the property after my first assault.

It doesn't look great by any means, but it's sure as hell better than it was with

six-foot monsters. If it wasn't for the constant rain, I'd eventually be able to get the weeds under control.  

This post is too long. 

If only I could get my blogging under control.....