Dreams of Summer Long-ago

In mid-June it’s hard to remember that it’s still spring. Summer doesn’t start this year until June 21^st, the longest day of the year in the Northern hemisphere. On that day, the sun will rise in Attleboro at 5:11 a.m. and set at 8:24 p.m. giving us over fifteen hours of daylight. Six hundred miles to the west, yet in the same time zone, sunset will not occur until 9:00 p.m. Those were the long days we remember, we who grew up in the country.

School out, hay tall in the meadows and ready soon for the second cutting, fragrant with alfalfa, clover, and orchard grass. These forage crops grew lushly, soaking up sunlight for the coming winter. An ancient method of storing solar energy, the hay was harvested, dried, and stowed against the cattle’s need for sustenance in the coming short, dark, frigid, barren days of winter.

It seemed that all of our efforts were directed to preparing for winter. Corn planted, to be stored in silos. Loft filled with the aforementioned hay. Orchards in bloom, with apples and pears and cherries to come. Gardens, planted only scant weeks before, already greening with tomatoes and greens, potatoes and squash, and, our favorite, watermelon.

All this bounty to be harvested, processed, and kept in some way before the frosts came. Potatoes, carrots, and apples into the root cellar. Tomatoes, beans, and corn canned, promising savory soups to come. A lot of labor – tilling, planting, weeding, harvesting, and preserving. But the payoff was in delicious, healthy meals, even in the dark of deep winter.

But it wasn’t all work. The neighboring farm contained a large pond, ideal for a squealing bunch of kids to swim and picnic and fish and snooze upon its sunny banks. A grove of young but supple maple trees, 2-3” in diameter, provided additional entertainment. Shinny up ten or twelve feet, then begin to lean to and fro. The tree would sway and then gently droop, lowering the grinning child to the ground, and rebound when released, no worse for the wear. Luckily in those days, lawsuits were not filed at the drop of a hat, so we were welcomed on the neighboring farms.

Further fun was to be had from our old balloon-tire, single-speed bikes, which, after laboriously pedaled up the steep dirt-road hills, careened joyously down the other side, spewing gravel as we descended. Braking was optional, laughter was loud, knees sometimes skinned. It was the best entertainment that could be had (short of riding the spunky horses that the city folks boarded with us). Yes, summer in the country entailed hard work, but offered many offsetting rewards.

We learned to be self-sufficient, but learned, too, lessons of community. When a neighbor was gored by his bull, our dad milked his cows and cleaned the stalls for many weeks. Dairy cows don’t accept any excuses – they must be milked twice a day, every day. This simple act of generosity was repaid in many ways, none the least of which was a tow up the hill during “mud season,” when our car sank to its frame, and only the neighbor’s John Deere Model A had the moxie and ground clearance to yank us out of the mud.

The world is so much more complicated now. Entertainment is everywhere, always on, always demanding our attention. Twitter and Facebook and Instagram compete for our time. Our smartphones ding and ping and chime to draw our attention. The cable news networks are all ALERT ALERT ALERT, all of the time. Everything is breaking news, demanding our concern, our empathy, our energy. It is so draining.

Perhaps it’s time, this summer, to return to the old ways. Even for a single day, a single hour, disconnect, drop out, and find a fragrant hay field in which to regard clouds floating in the blue sky, and nap. Perchance to dream.