The euphoric first day of actual vacation/sabbatical inspired me to write this snapshot of childhood summer, dedicated to my mom.
"We made it, Joany," my mother would say each June, at the end of the school year. She was a teacher, and my special co-conspirator in the yearlong, un-Zen underground escape toward summer vacation.
'We made it' meant a bungalow in Rockaway, a glorious liberation paid for dearly, not only in the distractedly single-minded crawl of the late spring months, but in the arduous sweat-equity of our exodus from the Bronx. You see, we had no car, so a summer's worth of belongings, bedding, bikes, and the like had to be packed and hauled for the two-hour, three subway trip. It was, literally, painful, but the reward at the end made the price well worth it.
The smell of the little stucco shack. The smell. It was, objectively, mildew. But it was, to my soul, the perfume of profound happiness. It was mixed, at times, with fresh paint, salt of the sea, the promise of what was to come.
We would walk through the bungalow, a different one each summer, and begin to mark our territories. How rich it felt just to be somewhere else, to live another way, to see ourselves fully by framing ourselves anew. My mother would get busy unpacking, for it wasn't home until she'd hung her Modigliani print and her fish net with shells (we kids would do the scouting), and draped the pilly spreads on each bed.
And then, we were off. Off from school, from work, off from the confines and compressions of our cheek-to-jowl city life. We were off on bikes, on waves, on pings of neon Skeeball lights and other boardwalk magic. We danced our sunburn tingles away in the communal courtyard, as the deepening blanket of stars confirmed the casual glory of it all.
We made it, Ma.
'We made it' meant a bungalow in Rockaway, a glorious liberation paid for dearly, not only in the distractedly single-minded crawl of the late spring months, but in the arduous sweat-equity of our exodus from the Bronx. You see, we had no car, so a summer's worth of belongings, bedding, bikes, and the like had to be packed and hauled for the two-hour, three subway trip. It was, literally, painful, but the reward at the end made the price well worth it.
The smell of the little stucco shack. The smell. It was, objectively, mildew. But it was, to my soul, the perfume of profound happiness. It was mixed, at times, with fresh paint, salt of the sea, the promise of what was to come.
We would walk through the bungalow, a different one each summer, and begin to mark our territories. How rich it felt just to be somewhere else, to live another way, to see ourselves fully by framing ourselves anew. My mother would get busy unpacking, for it wasn't home until she'd hung her Modigliani print and her fish net with shells (we kids would do the scouting), and draped the pilly spreads on each bed.
And then, we were off. Off from school, from work, off from the confines and compressions of our cheek-to-jowl city life. We were off on bikes, on waves, on pings of neon Skeeball lights and other boardwalk magic. We danced our sunburn tingles away in the communal courtyard, as the deepening blanket of stars confirmed the casual glory of it all.
We made it, Ma.
1 comment:
This post brought back some memories for me too. We had a bungalow in Monroe in the mountains. No ocean, just a lake. Much simpler times... Thanks for the memory stirs Joan.
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