Summertime

Will he tiptoe, curious, to peek over the edge of a dusty produce stand to find mounds of lush blackberries, peaches, and tomatoes all waiting for a tongue to savor them, fingers to spill sweet juices down, and skin to leave sticky with summertime delight?

I love that God surprised me with a son born smack in the middle of summer. The scorching months of May through September have always been a struggle for this southern girl, who'd be happy to crawl into a dark hole until October cools things off. And yet, in July of 2020, I gave birth in a small apartment bedroom in Dallas. In the midst of a pandemic, in the midst of summer, in the midst of a home I loathed for many, many years, joy appeared.

That night, we gazed at the wrinkled face of our newborn son as thunder rumbled and rain fell and life began.

And so, naturally, summer has become a time for birthday parties and pool parties and frolicking in the sun. Solomon turned 2 this year, and I made a celebration feast of sandwiches and lemon blueberry cupcakes. We decorated with balloons and trains and lavished him with books and a wooden toy train set and other treasures. 

Two of his grandparents and many of his aunts and cousins joined us, so our home was filled with hours of chaos, the best kind: laughter, smeared frosting, toys scattered, toddlers chasing one another down the hall, second pots of coffee, wailing babies, hugs and kisses, storybooks, running through the sprinkler, a slippery slide into the water.

My husband and I wonder aloud, often: all of these memories that mean so much to us with our son—what will he remember? Will he remember any of this?

We are laying the foundation of his primal memories, I say to him, and pick up my camera. 

Despite any angst with the heat and humidity, summer is the best for baking childhood right into you. Hayfields and tomato plants and water from the garden hose are all made ripe in the sun and carry a unique fragrance that only happens in summertime. It's a heat you inhale as you lick the salt off the skin of your forearm and feel the warm-oven-blast of air through sagging window screens at night when you try to sleep. It's a dance of dread and delight, as nighttime welcomes darkness and the whippoorwills, but the mosquitoes come along, too. 

I think about this sometimes, when driving Solomon around in July. The ac goes full blast and our hair blows wild with it. Will the coolness and sterility of comfort become an unwitting shelter against an irreplaceable childhood? Will summer be allowed to go deep into his flesh, pressing heat and memory into skin and bone? Will he ever hang his head out an open window as we drive past farm fields and pastures dotted with cows, and breathe in the sun-baked grass, leathery scent of cattle, and earth? Will the heat from softened tar on old blacktop roads rise to slam into his face, taking his breath away? Will he learn to love the smell of fresh hay, almost as sweet and comforting as a warm, luxurious strawberry from the garden? Will he tiptoe, curious, to peek over the edge of a dusty produce stand to find mounds of lush blackberries, peaches, and tomatoes all waiting for a tongue to savor them, fingers to spill sweet juices down, and skin to leave sticky with summertime delight?

Will he ever hear the whippoorwills?