I’ve lost another July.
July has always been my favorite month. I love the heat , and July offers me plenty of it. My birthday is in July, so the month has always had an air of holiday about it. When I was a kid, July was the one month that was free of any thought of school: The old school year was ancient history; the new year was not until far-off August, in another lifetime.
July was summer vacation, and every day our mother would take us to the beach right after breakfast, and we stayed until lunch, and skin cancer never crossed our minds. Many times after dinner Dad would take us back to the beach and solemnly admonish us to stay on the sand because everyone knew that sharks feed at night. Then he would head right out to where the water was deep and black and he could swim unencumbered by having to watch the kids, and if he was concerned about sharks, it didn’t show.
When I was growing up July seemed way longer, but it not as hot, as it is now. Rain showers cooled every afternoon and my brother and I and our friends, traveling in packs, were always cool and wet. From pool to beach and back we had the kind of freedom that allowed us to take a dip in Middle River, or dive into the Intracoastal, or to jump in the lagoon at Birch Park, all of which were strictly forbidden.
My parents loved the Fourth of July with a patriotic obsession and, rain or shine, we had a barbecue and watched the fireworks. There was the year that an early tropical storm came through on the Fourth, which forced my father to hold the barbecue in the carport, nearly asphyxiating the entire family. And there was the unforgettable year that my parents, and God knows what they were thinking, decided that my 16-year old sister was mature enough to watch my brother and me while they left town for the weekend. That was the Fourth that we watched fireworks from the roof, with my sister and her friends in a stoned, drunken stupor, not caring that my brother and I were perilously close to the edge. When the fireworks were over, it made perfect sense to jump from the roof into the pool.
Now, July is hot, but not so exciting, and free time is scarce. What happened to those long Sunday afternoons at Bootleggers, drinking beer and eating steamer clams? Where did those steamy nights on South Beach go, when the air was humid with anticipation? When was the last time I had the free time to go to the beach with a book that I knew I would never read because taking a nap seemed a better use of my time?
July is such a short month now, as they all are. I got a job, fell in love, bought a house. My career went well but the travel was non-stop. The house needed constant attention and both sets of parents grew older and more dependent. It was in July that the vet said gently, “It’s time,” and a bright July day grew dark.
But every year I pledge that this July will be different; that it will be a month of beach parties and pitchers of beer and maybe even some harmless flirtation. And then, before I know it is August and I allow myself a small sigh as I clean the pool that I don’t have time to actually swim in, and I tell myself, “Next July….”