Unsurprisingly, summer is the season when I most miss my island home. The garden, the beach, my big leather armchair beside a big, open (bug-screened!) window, so that I could read in comfort but still experience all the estival (rhymes with festival!) sounds and scents. When I got too warm, I could change into a swimsuit and be in the water 45 seconds from my front door. . . and on the warmest days I would do that four or five times. If I was too warm to sleep at night, a before-bed dip was perfect for lowering core temperature, much more pleasant than a cold shower. (Some posts from my island summer days, in case you’re curious: here and here and here and here (bonus video in this post of a barred owl on our garden gate.)
Paddling was the same. I could drag my kayak to the water on my own, easily, and scoot ’round the island before Paul was up in the morning (post about this here) or coax him into a circumnavigation after dinner (not that he needed coaxing to paddle, but he’d generally done enough before dinner that he preferred keeping his evenings easy. (evening paddle post here)
Late July into August, I’d fill buckets with blackberries from a patch I allowed at the back of our yard — then make a few batches of jam; bake up a few pies if the weather wasn’t too hot; and freeze enough for pies throughout the year. Worth all those scratches across my hands.
And the joys of the summer garden — daily bouquets of roses and gypsophila and sweet peas, hydrangea blooms and allium’s spiky purple globes, rudbeckia and echinacea, lilies and coreopsis and all manner of foliage. Just the lush abundant ease of it all. . .
I’m not even going to mention the summer pleasure of sitting in my pjs at dawn in a big armchair next to the water, big trees behind and above me, birdsong crescendoing into the day, waves scuttling a rhythm over the beach gravel. . .
We have versions of the swimming, the paddling, the garden here in the city, as you’ll know. And our fountain does bring the sound of water to our terrace; I’ve learned to appreciate the noisy chirping of the House Sparrow’s animated conversations.
But the last few summers in the city have challenged my equanimity. The way the heat is magnified by so much glass (glass that’s appreciated during the greyer months, of which Vancouver has many), and then exacerbated by window openings kept narrow for security. . . The way the urban noise finds its way through those windows so much more easily than any cooling breeze, chief among them engines and sirens . . .
Most of all, what’s been troubling me this last week or so is how much more work it takes for activities that have been foundational to my sense of summer for decades. Growing up in a small city, I could walk with siblings to the nearby Kiwanis pool and did so almost every day. On weekends, the family would head to an ocean beach; some mornings before he went to work, Dad would wake a few of us older kids up and drive us to a nearby lake for a magical start to the day.
And I tried to do the same for my own kids. By then, the summer swimming took more effort, of course, driving in traffic and heat, then trying to keep track of four active bodies spread out across sand and water. The squabbles, the sandy-wiches, the application of sunscreen. But the satisfaction easily paid back the effort, the cost . . .
When we moved to the island, our home only metres from the high-water mark, the effort was even less . . . for summer pleasures, that is. We paid for those in the challenge of commuting (by boat) during fall storms and winter snowfall and frosty docks, slippery boat ramps, septic pump failures, and all manner of small-island vexations. But the island was perfect for Summer. . .
So lately, I’ve been mourning its loss again, even though I know that our move was a good move, for all the right reasons. A well-considered move that has paid us many benefits, and I readily admit the privilege I enjoy of a comfortable (enough) and attractive (enough) home in a very convenient location.
Nevertheless, in the summertime, this location means I hadn’t been swimming or paddling this year until this week — to do so here, I need to bike with Paul to the place we keep our kayaks. Then I need to get into my kayak from an awkward and slippery and often steep boat ramp. . . Swimming would either require contending with traffic and then finding a parking spot OR doing what Paul much prefers (and which I agree is more practical) and biking to the beach (which then involves either changerooms and packed change-of-clothes or cycling home in minor discomfort).
None of which would have constituted a barrier when I was younger. But I’m not. Younger. Rather . . . Well, you know. . .
And I think this might be the crux of the melancholy I expressed to Paul a few mornings ago. I should have known, practical man that he is, that my concerns about summer being half over and I’d scarcely been in or on the water would be met with reminders of all the “summer things” I had been doing. And he might have known, complicated woman that I am, that I could be enjoying some aspects of summer while missing others. Fair enough, though, that he might not have understood how deeply the melancholy went nor how much summer had to do with aging and mortality and marking time, nor how much certain activities represented Summer’s Essence to me. How they then became essential to my summer. How their absence raised an anxiety about a bigger void looming, existentially. . . Because it took me a bit to work that out for myself. . .
In fact, until I did that, we might have let a contretemps interrupt our morning. Married life reality. But after he left, I stopped to think for a bit and then I sent him a text:
The text more precisely and more concisely articulates what I’d been thinking out loud about before in a more . . . well, meandering . . . .fashion, frustrating my guy’s preference for a straight line, a problem that can be solved. Minutes later, he called to say that he was grateful for the message and got the point: Both things could be true, my enjoyment of summer activities recently and my melancholy over others that seem to be on the wane and some that we left behind completely when we moved. As well, when I tied my feelings about summer to my septuagenarian’s growing awareness of mortality . . . that resonated! After all, he’s further into this decade than I am.
In fact, while he’s very fit, healthy, and active — he bikes, paddles, swims 4 or 5 days a week throughout the summer, even here in the city — he knows he’s lucky in that ability. And his discomfort with my passing melancholy might signal a preference to avoid thinking of a future when his summer’s essence might have to shift. We’re both aware that the dials need to be attended and adjusted during this decade, that we want to take advantage of the energy, health, and fitness when and while we have it, but be able to find contentment while conserving that energy, health, and fitness as our bodies age.
Since he and I had our little chat, we’ve managed two kayak-and-swim adventures. And I’ve also indulged in a long Zoom chat with a good friend. She’s not 60 yet, but as soon as we began talking about our summers (and before I told her about my recent laments), she expressed almost exactly the same sentiment, linking the passing of summer with mortality, with a counting-off of our days here. It’s not just me! Surprising how good that feels sometimes, the reassurance that we’re not alone in what we feel.
So I’m thinking that perhaps this post will resonate with some of you as well.
And, if you’ve made it this far, let me tell you that I’m currently putting together a list of my new summer pleasures. They’re not really new, to be honest, but I’m newly attentive to the quieter joys of summer. I hope I’ll still be swimming and kayaking and cycling and hiking when I’m 85, but in case I’m not, I’d like to be learning, meanwhile, what to look forward to each winter and what to savour as the digital mercury rises. . . If you have ideas or suggestions about that, save them for the next post — I’ll look forward to seeing them.
For now, I’m so curious to know whether this post has any resonance for you. Do you miss certain precious activities that were once essential to your summers? Do they persist somehow, in other forms? Are they gone because of a move? (and can you go back regularly or occasionally to that “summer place” to retrieve them?) Are they lost because of a broken relationship? a bereavement? Loss of physical strength or energy? Or have you simply lost interest, changed your preferences?
And perhaps above all, I’m curious to know if anyone else associates the end of summer with the diminishing stock of our years . . . If so, do you reconcile yourself to that more easily if you’ve managed to do Whatever Essential Activity that summer, or simply lived it as fully as you wanted to, this one summer.
It’s definitely not just you! This post definitely resonated with me. Here on the prairie, summers are always much too short and winters much too long, but the passage of summer has bothered me more than usual this year. As you know, I’ve also turned 70 within the past year. Add to that, the fact that my chronic cancer, though still not seriously threatening my life, has progressed a bit recently and thus requires a change of treatment. For me, summer means camping, hiking, kayaking, and golfing. Thankfully, I’ve been able to do all of those this season, but I do find myself wondering for how much longer…
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Having always lived on this temperate coast, I can only imagine how much more intensely I’d feel the passing of summer if I lived somewhere with long, very cold winters. I’m so glad you got out to do all your favourite summer activities this season, and I hope the change of treatment ahead is easy to accommodate and keeps you functioning well.
What a dreamy read as I got lost in the linked posts of island living, swimming, kayaking and soaking up the glory of long summer days. The end of summer signifies a passage of time to me too. The passage has been strongly felt over the past few years as I watch friends, most of whom are 5-10 years older, slow down and drift away from activities that were once part of our shared summers. Our activities together have changed but I treasure the time, whatever we do. I think the phrase, “the quieter joys of summer” is a perfect description. As I watch our friends break the age barrier ahead of us, mostly with grace and good humor, my thoughts turn to mortality more often. I work hard not to count my days but to use my own aging as a motivator. I am not always successful.
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I’m so pleased you enjoyed the post and even took a wander through those links.
You bring up something I hadn’t considered, but yes, this is significant, those friends just a few years ahead of us who are no longer likely to be part of our more active and/or challenging summer doings. . . I love the twist you’ve put on this change (loss, really) . . . the watching and learning from those friends’ “breaking the age barrier ahead . . . with grace and good humor”
Actually as I was driving home from the barn this afternoon after ministering to the pony and taking a little ride I got to thinking, the ride took over 2 hours, Sunday traffic, about past summers. For quite a number of years summer always included visits to a well known music venue. There were world renown musicians under the tent or in the more intimate courtyard. My partner and I would usually attend with another couple. We would pack a picnic most times, to be eaten among the beautiful gardens and vast lawn. We would go more than once each summer. When the relationship ended ,and the friendship ebbed I didn’t go anymore.
For a while I did try to entice others to come with me. But we are all getting older and the drive back through rural roads in the dark may have put some off, or just not the interest. It was just so much a part of my summer, and then it wasn’t. Not to say there have not been other pleasures to take it’s place.
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I can imagine how much you would miss those lovely summer days of music and food with good friends, a loved one. . .
I try to remember what my brother-in-law said to us when we told him (and my sister) that we were leaving our island. He asked how long we’d been there, and said, “Weren’t you lucky you had all those years!”
And then this beautiful, bittersweet sentence of yours (I imagine it in a rich, elegiac novel): “It was just so much a part of my summer, and then it wasn’t.” Yes, exactly. xo
Oh…I do…I do, Frances. Especially this summer. With my Mum’s death and trying to put together something to say at her Celebration of Life next month, I’ve been dwelling on summers of the past much too much. And now that both she and my step-father are gone, there will be no more berry-picking up on the hill, no more jam making, or haying on the island, and sitting on top of a big lumbering load of hay making our way home after dark among the fireflies. Even though I have not sat on top of a load of hay for years and years, it seems much more firmly in the past than ever before.
And as for your island idyll… I totally see how you must mourn its loss every now and then, even though as you say the move was for the best. I’d be the same. And equally as unable to explain it to my much more “get it done and get on with things” partner. xox
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Oooh, this must be so close for you, right now, this whole topic. Having had that kind of access to those quintessential and romantic summer activities that most of us only know now through books or films. . . The hayride, especially!
Sending you hugs as you prepare for paying your Mum tribute next month. I gave the eulogy for both of my parents in turn — a rewarding task and an honour, but such an emotional endeavour. Take care.
I discovered and subscribed to your blog, Frances, just as you had moved from the island to the city, and I remember not being able to imagine deciding to make that move (even though I am five years older than you). I think I even wrote and asked you why you left your paradise then. Now, I understand that it would have been wise for my husband and I to leave our paradise and downsize then. The difference: my vibrant, vital, vim and vigorous (and younger) husband died nearly three years ago, and I have been struggling since then to not only close his practice, but to clear out our large home and maintain its property in preparation to put both on the market. It is a huge, ongoing project that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to finish. Because these actions must be completed ASAP, I have not had the opportunity to mourn for my husband and celebrate his life with the many people who love and miss him. I envy your time to read (which, along with swimming on open water and music, is my passion). I encourage any nearly-senior who reads this to plan and act to make the foreseeable changes that will be necessitated by age before they must do so under duress.
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It’s so hard to make that call, Leslie. We left when we did at least partly because we’d had a few years of having parents downsize, and then die, so that we saw how much work was entailed and how much we didn’t want to burden our kids with. Plus wanting to be closer to the grandkids, etc.
What a hard time for you to have lost your husband, though, during the pandemic and so in isolation. I wish you strength to get over this huge hurdle and find or make the time you need to mourn and to celebrate your husband’s life. And then find a new home which brings you joy and gives you space to follow your passions.
Your island summers sound idyllic . I don’t think I could have left there but you have surprised me . You have embraced city life with all it’s advantages but kept a foot in the natural world too . I don’t think summer is that important to me . I’m not one for outdoor pursuits bar walking & gardening , which is as enjoyable in spring & autumn . I’m more a spring & autumn person . Which is perhaps for the best as our summers sometimes just don’t happen . We have had constant rain now for 48 hours & actually switched the heating on last night . It’s been a chilly July but , watching the news , I’m just grateful not to be having the forest fires & record breaking temperatures of some places in Europe . I hope your Italian family are managing to stay comfortable .
I think life often becomes ‘ smaller ‘ with age & the associated health problems . Holidays are not so full on adventurous & I certainly can’t party into the night now . Your circle becomes naturally smaller as friends & family pass on or just need to conserve their energy for other things . It is understandable that grandparents in their 70s will want to enjoy the little ones & run out of energy for their contemporaries . I don’t want to sound too gloomy though . An older life might be quieter but there is still much pleasure to be had from the gentler pursuits . As I always say – stay curious & keep a sense of wonder – & most importantly humour !
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Life on the island was idyllic in so many ways, but could also be challenging and would only have gotten more so. I doubt I’ll stop missing it, but change is part of life, right?
I wouldn’t say summer is my favourite season, but it does seem to be the one that most notably signals time’s passage for me. Too many plants simply stop growing by its end, and winter has ever been associated with hunger and a need for shelter. At an atavistic level, I have long had the sense that winter is when people die. Not statistically true in my personal experience, but I guess I feel that at an almost cellular level.
We’ve got a lovely rainy day here now, and the temperature’s dropped to 20C today — this used to be fairly common in our old summers (our climate here on the West Coast has generally been very similar to England’s). Now, there are forest fires raging across the province and most of the country, for that matter. We’ve had the dubious honour of having the worst air quality in the world a few days this past month, and one of my sisters has been on evacuation alert for days. . . Luckily our Italians are safe — have been enjoying the sea in Sardinia where it’s been 42 with no A/C in their accommodation. I couldn’t do it!
Yes to Staying Curious and Keeping a sense of wonder (and humour!)
We have had days of solid rain, just stopped and the sun has come out. It is cool but not actually wet so I hope to take advantage of that today and sit in the garden. Summer has never really been my favourite season, except in the very early part and I actually contemplate August with a little dread. I don’t care for the flowers of late summer and the way things start to look a bit tired and overblown. At the same time I feel a vague compulsion to do summery things because, well, you know, summer…but I prefer early autumn, just as I like late spring. However, I will admit to being plagued by thoughts of time passing, loss of independence, another year passing, to the point that I infuriate myself in the small hours. I think that is probably natural as you get older and friends and family start to falter. Oh dear. Perhaps another cup of coffee? Put the washing in? Finish my book…? Too much recent chat about the past. On we go.
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Much of my answer to Wendy I’d repeat to you except my fingers are tiring 😉
Oh, those small hours, the nonsense we have to listen to in our own little voices!
Yep, won’t be another coffee for me, but I’ve just enjoyed a sit-down with a nice hot cuppa and my book and now I’m going to finish knitting a wee sheep and then visit a sweet and inspiring sister-in-law after she gets back from her oncologist visit. That will all be a good reset! On we go indeed!
I know exactly what you mean, I have been counting the years in summers for a long time now. That is the reason why I cannot understand those people who enjoy autumn – for me it is a period of parting with the light and warmth of summer.
At the same time, your post showed me once more how incredibly lucky I am to have that place near the lake where I can spend more time now that I am retired. It not only represents my childhood summers, but even those of my mother an aunt, because the cottage has been in the family for over 100 years. That place is one of the reasons why I have always felt reluctant to move far away from this very inconspicuous dot on the map. Now that we are both free of work obligations and vacation dates, my sister and I have divided summer into two periods of six weeks each, taking turns each year. This year, I spent June and half July looking after the garden and filling up the reservoir of sunset memories. There is only one disadvantage to this arrangement: leaving when my time is up is more and more painful every year…
All of this brings me to a suggestion which – I am sure – you may have considered yourself: is there a possibility to rent/buy a cottage somewhere near the sea or a lake, perhaps joining forces with one or several of your children?
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You are very luck with your lake, Eleonore — wonderful that it holds over a century of family memories.
Yes, we’ve considered this possibility of renting or buying, but these last few summers plagued by wildfires make that a less and less attractive proposition. . . and given the amount of travel we do to stay connected with the Italian crew (whom we would never visit in summer — the heat!), best to adjust to summers here, for now at least 😉
I very much understand all that you have expressed so elequently . This is the summer of my 70th Birthday . I am also on a chronic cancer journey (CML) which is probably requiring a change of treatment fairly soon . It’s hard to balance past , now , and a foreshortened future , which has made this summer an especially poignant one for me . My head and my heart are full of summers past .
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It is hard to balance, yes, especially with the precarity of a cancer journey . . . Perhaps you’ll be able to share with us again in my upcoming post, finding the smaller and quieter joys that summer still brings. Part of which, maybe, exists in those memories stirred up by the warm days of the current season. Take care.
Our weather is so much milder than yours and the winters are not as long or as bitter. Perhaps that explains why I don’t feel as you do about the passing of each summer. By the end of a long, hot and steamy summer I’m more than happy to see the season end. The pandemic and its restrictions also helped me to adjust expectations and to appreciate small pleasures. Existential angst is more likely to strike me on birthdays or at Christmas when I find it harder to ignore the passing of time.
Your island summers were so idyllic that it would be impossible not to miss them, despite the travails of winter and your long commute. Your post struck such a delicate balance between recognition of the advantages of city life, longing for past pleasures and the inexorable passing of time.
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Yes, much of my response to summer has to do with the possibility for food to grow during the season — although here on Canada’s southwest coast we have much milder winters than the rest of Canada. And, of course these days, so much of our produce comes from elsewhere. . . Still, there’s something about growing apples and tomatoes and cucumbers, beans and strawberries, etc., that’s so viscerally reassuring and such a symbol of growth and life. . . and then when those plants die or grow dormant with the shortening days, such a strong message or lesson about mortality. I’ve never lived anywhere where fruit and vegetables and grains grow year-round; that would set an entirely different calendar, I’m sure. . .
Frances – we, at 80 and 83, are just coming to this….leaving our idyllic life on the Lake and moving to an independent Seniors apartment in Ottawa. My husband has a mobility problem now – which makes the ‘life change’ necessary..BUT even if we had ‘perfect’ health, in our 80’s we need to do this NOW not when we are in a crisis situation. I do know that there will be loss – so tranquil here, fresh air, hills, forest, wildlife, birds, no traffic, no noise. But it is time for a smaller work load and less maintenance. Ottawa is an interesting city and we have chosen a great location (park, trails etc.). Now back to selling this lovely place and packing up our ‘downsized’ belongings!
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Sounds as if you’ve been really thoughtful about your move, and managed to get the most and the best of an idyllic lakeside home. I wish you the very best in your transition — overall, we’re glad that we moved in time to be in control of choosing and setting up our new home. Ottawa is a great city for you and your downsized, easier-to-maintain lifestyle.
Ah this post…yes yes and yes.
I understand and empathize….I miss our boats. We cruised the Salish Sea for many decades and I do miss the experience. Not the cost or the maintenance but the actual feeling of freedom. But now we have our quartershare cottage on Pender and we are right above the sea at the edge…family and grandchildren are here. We are making new memories…we have been doing this 6 summers now!
Life is changing quite quickly as I approach 70…health issues and energy shifts.
I remind myself how fortunate we are to be alive be together and live in a place of natural beauty and peace.
Am just putting a loaf of sourdough bread in the oven…kids are still asleep my coffee is hot and the day is slowly unfolding.
Best wishes and keep up the great discussions Frances!
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I can imagine what it was like to give up the freedom of boating and all that goes with that. Time at the marina, spending time with other boaters, planning trips, a certain sense of identity as boaters. etc. But your seashore cottage time is a lovely shift that merges something of that lifestyle with one that better suits your situation now. You must feel that especially this week, with your grandchildren alongside. Enjoy!
How elegiac and beautiful post! Summer paradise, to live at the beach…….
It resonated with me so much….my plan was to live at the seaside for 3-4 months in retirement but last couple of years it is less than before,2-3 weeks at max
Caring for my mother and a lot of other things…..
There are a lot of other beautiful replacements and I try to be happy about them
It is wonderful to be able to swim and paddle near your home …..I love your sketch as it was
Dottoressa
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Oh yes! I can imagine this would have resonated with you — your seaside time has been such an important part of your life and should have been a central comfort in retirement. . . As they say, life is what happens to us while we’re making other plans. And knowing you, you are finding beauty and joy (and bringing it to others!) wherever you are. xo
I have always thought of September as the beginning of the year, rather than New Year’s Day – I suppose it’s the combo of the beginning of the school year, an actual shift in the weather, unlike NYD, where everything is the same from one day to the next. So I get the “another year has passed” aspect you’re talking about here.
I do feel like I’m seizing summer this year – we’ve gone to outdoor concerts, to festivals, and just enjoyed being outside as much as possible. Getting the hang of this retirement thing….
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You’ve had a fabulous summer — yours is one of the best retirements I’ve seen in action, if from a distance. And, of course, winter is practically non-existent there, at least from a Canadian perspective 😉
This summer in Florida under the “heat dome” has been miserable. Every day is in the 90’sF and water at the beaches is like a warm bath. Only the springs give some relief, and they are really crowded most of the day so this has been a summer to stay inside. I tried a early morning walk last week and almost did not make it home.
So we stay inside and find creative ways to spend our time. I’m working on a biography of my great grandmother who, as an actress, spent 1919-1920 touring Asia in a repertory company sending the most amazing letters home. She ran out of corsets somewhere in India and her story of having new ones made is hilarious. I can’t imagine why she thought she needed them in that heat. I just hope to have her curiosity and joie de vie as I continue to age.
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We had a brief (although it didn’t feel like it at the time) experience of a heat dome two summers ago, and you have all my sympathy. I hope you continue to stay cool inside — your great-grandmother’s biography is a wonderful project while you’re confined indoors. What a treasure trove you have in those letters (like the diary Wendy in York is currently transcribing, kept by her father in 1926 and onward, see her comment last post).
As Wendy and Annie have said, our UK summer this year hasn’t been anything to regret, with constant rain. Two dry days up here in the whole of July. There comes a shift in the season in Scotland in early August, at Lammas, when the light changes, the air changes, the hues of the countryside change, and we start to slip into August. I find it an intensely melancholic time, in a way that I feel is quite primeval, and bound up with the old Quarter Day and hiring fairs, and back to the first of the pagan autumn festivals. Recent family history research has gone back as far as farmers in Angus in the late 1700s – perhaps some inherited memories are at play there! But it’s spring rather than summer when I feel the passing of the years, and increasingly so now that I’m retired and can live intensely every tiny unfolding of the season. I take such joy in spring that I want many, many more of them. I try hard not to count off the years, but it is hard…What seems to help is to look forward to the pleasures of the next season.
Your guy and mine sound very alike. I constantly get reminded to “look for the solutions, not the problems”. Which does infuriate me sometimes because I quite like looking for problems!
On your associated IG post I noticed that your kayaks have rudders, and I mentioned this to my sea-kayaking husband (who has just driven to Newcastle and back in a day (12 hours of driving, most of it not on motorways) to buy his dream sea kayak). Apparently North American boats have rudders but British ones don’t – they’re steered by the kayaker moving their body.
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Your description of your weather sounds like what was often the case here; there would come a couple of days’ rain in early August, and we’d know that we’d seen the last of the good swimming days, that the temperature wasn’t likely to get above 22 until the next year. . . .But climate change is very evident here, especially in the summer — although milder this year than the last two, I’m relieved to say.
Many kayaks here are without rudders, and there are many different types of kayaks, depending whether they’re used for sea or small lake or river for white-water paddling. Paul often paddles with his rudder up (i.e. suspended out of the water) and steers with his paddle. I can do the same, but our kayaks are heavy, plastic, and relatively flat-bottomed (the kind that were perfect for when we lived at the beach — I could drag mine to the water on my own and not worry about damaging — couldn’t have done that with a fibreglass boat, and a kevlar one would have been $$$).
I’m keenly aware of summer’s midpoint and a diminishing number of summers ahead. I try to dismiss the thought as soon as I’ve had it, because 1. I cannot change it and 2. I’m lucky to have had so many summers. But, the melancholy does persist. I’m lucky to be at our island home right now and relishing my time here. The ocean isn’t feet from the door and we do have to fight traffic to get around. We can bike to the beach, but there are inconveniences to that (carrying umbrellas, beach chairs, lunch cooler) and we often wait for a parking spot. However, it’s much easier to get to the beach or an ocean view than it is in our Boston suburb. As someone who lived in the landlocked midwest for a while, I won’t complain about living a distance from the ocean in a coastal state.
I remember my MIL being wistful about the end of summer and how it marked life rushing by. Now, she is 98 and my husband brings her to the island for a summer vacation. For several years, she has observed that it is her last visit. Understandable, but she is fortunate to have longevity passed down in her family, and we remind her that there is a good chance of a visit next year.
I wrote about the end of summer last year (here: https://seasaltandsailorstripes.com/taking-deep-breaths-of-summer/), not as eloquently as you write, but my sentiments are there.
I’m a few years behind you and I haven’t yet come up with alternative summer activities to replace the ones I love. That is a good idea. Last summer a foot problem forced me to take a shortcut to the long walk to our favorite beach. It is a magical hike and I took pride in doing it back and forth. Last summer I was dropped off at the beach entrance and did a smaller walk. I haven’t been to that beach yet this year, but hope to make it this week. I’ll give the hike a try. If my foot protests after a few trips, I’ll accept the compromise.
Enjoy the expanse of summer ahead and “worry pas” about the end of summer as much as you can. I shall try and do the same.
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Sounds as if you’re making the most of your summer — I hope that hike works out for you and perhaps you’ll manage a dip or to in the ocean. Very impressive that your mother-in-law is still that active and has had more summers than she ever expected! We can all learn from that!
And let me reassure you — I don’t spend too much time worrying about this summer ending (after all, we have a very cool trip planned for October!). But when I do feel some sadness, I don’t mind letting it take some space, and then articulating it in case others are, as I am, reassured to know they’re not alone.
I’ve managed several dips into the ocean! It is glorious this year.
So may of us are reassured by being in good company in this aging process. Also, we get so much support for making the most of what we are so fortunate to have. I always look forward to reading your posts and as many comments as I have time to read.
The La Nina summer we had here in northern New Zealand was terrible – cyclone, severe flood, clouds & no sun. Billions of dollars in damage. And on a personal level hardly got the summer clothes out! Soon we will be heading into a El Nino spring & we are wondering what extreme weather that will bring. It’s climate change but it has not flipped most people out of their complacency yet. In 3 months we may unfortunately elect a gov of climate change deniers.
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Yes, we’ve experienced fires and floods and landslides and smoke and record-breaking cold and drought, etc. over the last few years, and I’m sure that’s a universal experience now. Very disturbing.
Alright Frances, this particular post of yours definitely resonated, so much so that I am responding for the first time! Growing up in central Ontario, summer swimming in lakes was as naural as breathing. Thirty-three years ago I married into a family with a modest waterfront cottage that eventually became ours, so water was literally at our doorstep most of the summer. When the cottage was closed for the season last fall, it dawned on me that I had NOT been in the lake–probably for the first time EVER! I was surprised, but upon reflection realized that more excuses have “made sense” as I get older … it’s too windy today, there are too many boats churning up the water, there’s not enough time, etc etc. I was never a strong swimmer, but water was an irresistible attraction throughout my life! I would never have imagined the day would come when I wouldn’t be jumping in–but it looks like that was what happened the summer I was 63 … (I haven’t been in yet this year either, ‘though there’s still time for THAT to change!)
I remember my parents being in the water with my sisters and me when we were really little; I recall one day at age 8 or so (as the youngest in the family) accepting that swimming was no longer something my parents “did”. But I NEVER thought the day would come when the adult out of the water would be me …and does this mean my lake swimming days are OVER? Has this become a sign of a life “era” drawing to a close? Will just finding my way over the rough terrain that leads to the water’s edge become the next “final frontier”? The brevity and ephemeral nature of summer does seem to trigger such thoughts …
Although, if someday a grandchild were to enter my life, perhaps they would rekindle the part of my life that existed in the water … 😉
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I wonder how much your not having swum at all last summer had to do with the disruption Covid effected in all of our routines. Or would this have happened anyway. I would never suggest that we should all keep swimming in summer until the end of our days — many of us aren’t keen to be the water even in our 20s, and some only swim in pools or other specific situations (an ocean beach or a lake, sandy bottom, etc.)
But for me, for now at least, I want to keep the swimming as part of my summers for as long as I can, and I am aware how much more that takes here in the city. Not sure how long I’d keep it up if I had to make my way over rough terrain as well . . . Sounds as if you’re stuck thinking about this now as well — At least we know we have company? 😉
Navigating change as we age is an ongoing learning experience. Keeping pace is important. Finding new and different pleasures is key. You’ve managed all this beautifully. Would you change anything? What do you feel your next challenge is? For me, I live in the rural wooded countryside, 20 minutes drive to anything. I do enjoy the natural landscape and growing ornamental trees as well as a new apple orchard. I do miss the ocean and dream about a modern cottage by the sea.
And your island misses you! Always a room by the water for you…
I often yearn for summers past, partly because my summers in NY were often cooler than here in TN. They were certainly shorter, and the contrast between winter cold and summer warmth made them more welcome. Every summer I contemplate moving north, even as I see that this is not the best choice for me, at least not at this moment in time. Here, I can’t wait until they are over, still, perhaps always. Or perhaps it is some part of human nature, with more past under my belt than future to look forward to, and that future seemingly both more precious and less adventurous, to remember summers past. Perhaps being trapped indoors, due to heat or cold or even smoky air, brings out that restless longing.
We had a lovely, not too hot May and June, more like my upstate NY past than Tennessee, although it rained most of July. It is in the 90’s now, but I can accept that as it is now late August.