Summer
Kids
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By Vince Basehart
July 4 -- "I'm gonna go to Disneyland with my best
friend Krystal and I'm gonna go to Oregon and stay with my cousins
and we're gonna go camping and sleep in a tent and, and . . ."
Little 6-year-old Genevieve runs out of breath, so thrilled is
she with the Summer adventures spread out before her.
The Lens can remember when, like Genevieve's, summer was spelled "Summer."
Three whole long months stretched out between school years like a hammock between
shade trees.
Genevieve and I, along with her parents, a bunch of other families and about
a dozen more children, are enjoying a Santa Monica backyard barbecue.
“Um…that’s it!” Genevieve announces, and scampers off
to the swing set.
Eleven-year-old Michael, big for his age and intense-looking, is
on the summer camp track. Through the smoke of grilling hamburgers
he explains, "I'm going to music camp, science camp, and I'll
be trekking with the Boy Scouts." Michael lays out "trekking,"
a word typically associated with Himalayan expeditions, casually.
It's clear he's already been asked the question of "How will you spend
your summer vacation?" a hundred times already. He explains he'll be hiking
the Muir Wilderness for a full week with his Troop. “We’ll have
to hang our food in the trees because of bears.”
The science camp is one dedicated to "physics," by which is meant
one of those dedicated to blowing things up under adult supervision and shooting
model rockets into the sky. His instrument? "The piccolo."
Michael is already certain that he wants to be an Air Force pilot.
Ana Padilla, at age 14, is closer to living "summer," non-capitalized,
and at the age of incessant hair flipping. "I'm starting summer school
next week," she says, flipping her long black hair off of her face. “I’m
taking AP classes. And, you know, just hanging out a lot with friends."
She goes back to text messaging someone on a gewgaw and flipping her hair.
Emily is in trouble for something or other with her mother, and a bit brusque
for a 12 year old. “I have no idea,” she snorts, aiming her words
not at me, but at her mother, who hovers nearby.
The two are nearly identical looking, with short-cropped sandy
blonde hair and eyes the shape of upturned crescents. “I’m
supposed to be going to Hawaii,” pouts young Emily, quickly
closing in on impudence. She does not mention with whom, but I understand
it is with another family.
I have walked into something. Her mother is a bit embarrassed, but she stands
her ground. “That’s contingent upon your behavior,”
her mother says.
Emily’s pupils move up towards her forehead and she holds
her mouth slightly open in that perpetual “I can’t believe
it,” expression of pre-teen girlhood disgust. I nod affirmatively
in support of her mother’s admonishment and back away.
It seems these kids’ Summers are already packed. I don’t remember
having every moment of my beloved Summer so scheduled. Art lessons, visits to
the beach, bowling, Dodger games, hikes, firecrackers, sleepovers just…happened.
Days ran into weeks ran into months. It was nearly impossible to know what day
of the week it was, but for Sundays when we went to church.
Then there is little Joseph, probably too young still to even know there is
such a thing as Summer. His corduroy shorts bulge with training pants as he
puzzles over a slice of watermelon as broad as his shoulders.
Joseph just knows one thing about Summer, and he’s got it right: it is
for sitting on the grass at a barbecue and eating watermelon, and
spitting out the seeds onto the grass.
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