Fallen Spirits After Yet Another Not-So-Hot Summer

Another summer over (I was going to say “shot to hell” but feared it might sound negative), and I find myself in a pensive mood. I get this way every time one season yields to the next, taking not just calendar pages with it but a little bit more of our lives, like so many rose petals carried off by the wind. Oh, you know what I mean.

Anyway, beset by runaway pensiveness, I’ve been musing about the summer just past and putting some thoughts down on paper. It’ll probably just sound like silly ramblings to you, but here goes:

“O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in

Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat

That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer

Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft

Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld

With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.”

I’m obsessed with summer’s passing because this was going to be the year I savored every moment. Somehow or other, the last few summers seem to have slipped away before I realized it. It was Memorial Day and then it was Halloween and then it was dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. So, after what seemed like a long, dark winter to start 1995, I awaited the summer with uncommon eagerness.

I had it all mapped out. Most evenings, as dusk neared, I would stroll down to the beach and walk on the strand. I would chat with passersby, young and old alike, perhaps sharing with them an amusing tale from my childhood and, in turn, soliciting one from them. I would chuckle at the appropriate moments, then send them on their way with a hearty handclasp and pat on the back. If appropriate, we would hug.

“It’s people like that that make the world a better place!” they would think as we parted.

Evenings not spent strolling and being amiable with strangers would be whiled away either at the ballpark or sitting in outdoor cafes, sipping exotic coffees. Most nights, I foresaw going to the Big A, just for convenience, but there would be a fair share of trips to Dodger Stadium too. I vowed not to get upset even if I got stuck next to Joe Fan who insists on providing running commentary throughout the game.

Every weekend would be a mini-vacation. On most Saturdays, I would go to the beach and work on producing a dark, rich tan and talking to women in sunglasses and floppy hats. In recent years, I’d avoided the beach, even though I live less than a mile away. That’s the same beach to which I used to drive 1,000 miles to visit annually when I lived in Colorado.

But this was going to be retro-summer. Just like those glorious vacation days of years past, I would spend hours on the sand. If only for one more glorious summer of youth, I’d haul out the beach towel, the radio, the lotion, the book, the pasty skin and head for the water.

On weekends when I wasn’t beaching, golf would be the pleasure of choice. No more horsing around; this was the summer to get serious and play no fewer than three or four rounds a month. And not just the same old courses. This year, I was going to test as many different layouts as I could.

Beyond that, there was the whole range of movie openings, open-air bazaars, museum outings and moonlit sessions in a hot tub. It was shaping as one of the best summers ever. As summer dawned, there was no chance that I would lament later that it had whisked by.

Gosh. I turned the calendar page this morning to Sept. 1. My alma mater, the University of Nebraska, opened its football season last night. That means autumn to me. Labor Day is just around the corner.

My summertime tally: I lay out on the beach once, maybe twice. I didn’t talk to anyone in a floppy hat, nor did I take a single walk on the shoreline and get my feet wet on cold, wet sand.

Total attendance at Dodger-Angel games maxed out at three. Exotic coffees alfresco: zero.

Evening walks on the beach: none. Ditto for strolls on the pier. Golf outings: fewer than five.

It’s hard to say what went wrong. You get busy, the time gets away from you, something catches your eye on TV. Next thing you know, it’s bedtime.

You do that enough times in a row, and it’s September.

Footnote: My boss has informed me that my “silly ramblings” at the top of the column match verbatim lines written by some English poet named Blake. I asked my boss what he was driving at, and he said he was merely struck by the coincidence.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.