4th of July
By Rico Kellogg
The summer is like a firework. The apex of summer’s blazing trajectory explodes on the first week of July. June is the thin, glowing thread of the canister climbing skyward, all anticipation and building heat, momentum and excitement. The last week of June hangs suspended for a fraction of a second before exploding brilliantly in a blossom of sparks that ultimately fade and wink out during their earthward fall in August. Every part of a firework is a delight. The suspense, the colorful explosion and the twinkling fade to the black of the night sky are all moments to savor and wonder at. Fireworks are brief, and you can easily miss beautiful parts of them if you are distracted or not looking attentively.
When the holiday arrives, summer is at its full, blazing zenith; the days long, hot and languid. Watermelon, strawberries and big bunches of perfumed peonies are growing and ripening so quickly I can almost watch it happen before my eyes, and the pace of the days can make me feel as though I have the time to.
My kids and I are out of school and already the past school year is a distant memory; the rhythm of our routines changing. Up before dawn hurrying to assemble sack lunches for the boys replaced by rolling out of bed when I feel the whispered promise of the day’s heat on my neck. Leisurely breakfasts on a weathered grey teak bench in the garden instead of rushed cups of coffee and scrambling to remember all the paraphernalia needed to get out the door for the day. My morning ride to school, zigzagging around the brokers shuffling to offices on Walnut street and the CU students cluelessly stepping into my path while texting shifts to mountain bike laps on Betasso with only the deer as distractions. I have time to stop at Amante to savor an americano as I watch downtown Boulder come alive for the day. These are days when the stresses of being a teacher at the end of the school year melt away. I feel the pace of life slow down.
The kids’ days are free and unfocused and unfold organically. My children shuffle to our morning bedside with requests to watch cartoons and start the day bouncing on the trampoline with a ripped stuffed dog clenched between unbrushed teeth. Friends and neighbors’ kids show up, and the whole mob is running barefoot through the grass from house to house through the neighborhood like a many-limbed monster gathering more sunburned arms and legs, dirty hands and freckled noses as it noisily careens down the block toward the park. My two-year-old runs across the dazzlingly green lawn in a polka-dotted sundress and no diaper, the baby fat on her cheeks jiggling up and down while she crazily swings a half-eaten slice of watermelon to and fro. I can’t imagine a better place and time for her to be.
The sun is now the all-powerful ruler, dictator and despot, but also the benevolent protector. He gives warm lazy mornings that invite us into the damp haze of the yard as well as lingering, sultry evenings that melt deliciously into twilight as we linger around the table, sated by another meal from the grill. But he also sends us scurrying away for the shelter of the giant ash tree in the front yard or banishes us to the high country with his withering wrath once he has climbed high enough in the sky to hold us in his full gaze . The burning hot intensity of the summer’s explosion is scorching the grass and blinding us, making a part of us yearn for the cool, dark stillness of night again.
Late July and August are the slow burn; the dying embers of the campfire, the crunchy lawn after the searing heat wave and oven days in the high 90s. There is the overbearing bittersweet knowledge that we have passed the tipping point; we now have enjoyed more days of summer than we have left to relish. It’s a time to reflect on the days spent splashing in the pool, knee deep in a clear alpine stream or feeling the crackling sweat dry on my back as I snake down a twisty canyon road. There is that singular feeling that Robert McCloskey names in “A Time of Wonder”
“Take a farewell look at the waves and sky.
Take a farewell sniff of the salty sea.
A little bit sad about the place you are leaving; a little bit glad about the place you are going.
It is a time of wonder…”
The days shorten. The sun’s arc across the sky narrows. The signs are clear that the colorful sparks of high summer are beginning their inevitable twinkling out like fireflies at the distant edge of a meadow of tall grass. The shadows in the afternoon lengthen. The wasps of August visit the dining table with an angry urgency, seeking the meat they crave to brace for the cooler weather ahead. Class lists, hanging butcher paper and reams of writing paper push themselves rudely into my daydreams. There is a panicky lump forming in my throat. Plans not brought to fruition, hikes and rides not taken; trips postponed all trigger melancholy at the remembering. I feel myself aging as the summer wanes, the blossoms fall petal by petal, the water in the creeks drops and clears. Another season through the net slips by like the strong, deep-bellied rainbow lazily fins away from my grasp as I let it disappear into the swirling, pellucid waters of the eddy. I notice an exceptional stone at my feet; variegated schist polished to a translucent sheen. I bend to pick it up, intending to bring it home and place it in the garden to remind me of the pyrotechnic glory that was the summer.
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