Oh, when I look back now
That summer seemed to last forever
And if I had the choice
Yeah, I’d always wanna be there
Those were the best days of my life
~Bryan Adams, Summer of ‘69
This whole adulting thing is highly overrated.
As a kid, you want nothing more than to be grown up. But here I sit, watching the kids loving life at the cottage, wishing I had a Delorean and a stretch of road long enough to hit 88.
I don’t want a do-over. I certainly don’t envy the young, but I do admire them. And the simplicity of youth.
As adults, we always need a break. We’re on a perpetual mission to relax. Counting the days until our next vacation. But a holiday is far from relaxing. Unless you’re a kid on summer vacation.
I don’t want to McFly back to when I was too young to appreciate summer. Or a teenager saddled with the angst those years bring. Let’s land somewhere in between. In a simpler time when phones were still fastened to the wall and you needed a turntable and a penny to listen to music. For theatrical effect, the spinning vinyl has Alice Cooper belting out “no more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks.”
Even though the final bell did eventually ring and you sprinted out of the classroom, you still have math in your brain. Summer – Responsibility = Freedom + Adventure.
One day soon your revenue stream will be tied to your lawnmower, but for now you’re employed by Mom & Dad Inc. with the odd cash infusion from The Royal Bank of Grandma. Money is never a concern, and job stress isn’t a thing.
No fretting about what to wear in the morning. Mom’s scissors filled a drawer with denim shorts and muscle shirts. She was on the cutting edge of the recycling movement.
The price at the pumps means nothing. Your ride has a banana seat and is fuelled by Bubble Yum and Pop Shoppe cream soda.
Life does have its perils though. Pesky pine gum. The evil poison ivy. A blood sucker from the ol’ swimmin’ hole. Pedal gouge on your shin. Stepping barefoot on a prickly lawn. Or even worse, stepping on a sidewalk crack and breaking your mother’s back. All legit concerns.
As was the appearance of an iodine bottle to combat a scraped knee. Terror on a new level.
Yet adventure and freedom far outweighed potential pitfalls.
My world was a kingdom of riches. I’d cross the stone fence behind our country home and meander my way through what seemed like an endless field of tall grass to the woods in the distance. Beyond that was a creek. Truly an oasis.
The trek may have covered an acre. Perhaps two. But Bilbo’s quest paled in comparison.
That trickle of water was the destination, but the journey was laden with treasures.
There were gnarled trees to be carefully climbed because below was a sea of lava.
Don’t forget the blooming white dandelion fluff that had to be blown. Tart crab apples to be tasted. Not eaten but tasted because we all know what happens to your plumbing if you eat too many of them.
There were always milkweed pods to be opened. And tiny wild strawberries to be savoured.
We’d take long grass and try to make it whistle. Other grass that had gone to seed was perfect for a quick game of “tree or bush?”
Want some excitement? Accidently grab a patch of stinging nettles as you reach for the grass.
And who didn’t love a sword fight with a cattail in hand?
At the creek you’d find frogs and minnows. Water bugs and crayfish. Along with a few worms under a nearby rock so you could bait your hook.
Chilling on the banks, mesmerized by the endless scrolling clouds with shapes that tested the limits of imagination. The only thing that could break the spell of the sky was your bobber being pulled under by a fearsome sunfish.
Our bodies were fueled with two scoops on a sugar cone. Jugs of Freshie and Tang skillfully prepared by the neighbourhood Supermoms. Burgers and hot dogs barbecued over charcoal by one of the dads. I’m pretty sure lighter fluid was an actual condiment back then.
Most days capped off with a campfire-roasted marshmallow.
Bryan Adams is so right. Those summers were the best days of our lives. A tapestry of the little things. Difference makers. Every single one of them.
What I wouldn’t give for a flux capacitor.
Jason Marshall has been a writer and journalist for more than 35 years, and is an on-air host and general manager at Valley Heritage Radio just outside of Renfrew, Ontario. And he’s truly a big kid at heart. You can email him anytime at jason@valleyheritageradio.ca
