My Life Has Been Measured in Summers Past

How many of us remember when our parents would measure our height when we were kids?

“Hurry Tom, get the pencil. Today is Scott’s birthday and we have to mark how much he grew from last year.”

Somewhere in each of our childhood homes was a particular hallway closet, kitchen door or bedroom door jamb that kept the official box score in feet and inches of how tall we grew year after year. Etched by a Ticonderoga yellow number 2 pencil were the official black marks that proved to the world we were indeed growing up. We eagerly waited to cross the age bridge from toddler to pre-teen, from pre-teen to teenager, and finally from teenager to attaining the sacred age of “21,” the ultimate goal of every young adult everywhere in the United States.

Would this be the summer we would be able to ride the big girl or big boy amusement rides when the St. Joan’s summer carnival came to town, when we took our annual trip to Great Adventure, or spent our summer vacation week in Wildwood enjoying the rides on Hunt’s Pier? Would this be the summer we would finally be tall enough to ride the Scrambler, Free Fall or the Hell Hole? Could we walk the boards this summer (late at night) with only our friends? Would we finally be able to see the big summer blockbuster movie with no parental supervision? Could we finally see the summer rock concert on our own? We could only hope and scheme that this was indeed the summer all those dreams would be realized.

Summer was also the time of year—specifically the end of summer—when our parents would buy our new wardrobe for the upcoming school year. This activity became another reminder we were 12 months closer to becoming a teenager. We looked in disgust at those “baby-ish” clothes hanging in our closets from last year and would definitely not be caught dead wearing those same old duds.

Summer was the most magical season of our lives back then. I would argue it still is, even now as we creep into our sixth decade as working adults.

Summers past included many freedoms we thought would last forever. First, there was no school, classes or studying to interrupt our natural childlike inclination towards fun and lack of rules. Second, for most of us, our normal school-year routines changed. Maybe we went to summer camp, spent a week or more with relatives or grandparents, joined a summer pool or vacationed down the Shore. We played sandlot baseball with the kids in the neighborhood and competed with our schoolmates on swim, dive and Little League teams in township competitions.

Summers meant we wore far less clothes than during the other nine months of the year. Also, because many of our childhood activities included being near or in the water or ocean, we started to notice members of the opposite sex wearing much less clothing as well, and that was a big deal—trust me!

During the summertime, some of us only played with our everyday “neighbor friends”, while others developed “summer friends” who only joined us at the swim club, at camp, or down the Shore, since they didn’t live nearby and went to different school districts. By developing these new relationships we were able to make friends with new kids and enjoy new exciting experiences as a result. More importantly, because these kids were relatively unknown to our parents, we seemed to live more dangerously with this group of kids versus the neighbor kids our parents knew all too well. What our parents did not know, would not hurt them—or so we thought. Can anyone recall getting into some minor “trouble” with out-of-state cousins, those “kids” from Pennsylvania or visiting college roommates during those youthful summers? I thought so.

Summers flew by quickly and we suddenly found ourselves going from Slurpee cups and baseball cards, to discovering girls, going steady and making out. Back then, we lived outside during the summer months. Fields, pools, woods and beaches were our favorite haunts.

Years ago, the world was a very different place and there were very few places that were “off-limits” to young adults. It would serve to reason many “firsts” happened during those summer months when we were not confined to school schedules and classroom supervision. Our parents only knew we were with Monica and Sherry or Brian and Jim. They often didn't know what our activities were. In their busy minds, within their strictly defined suburban boundaries, we were fine. Out of sight and out of mind. There were no organized “playgroups” that existed back-in-the-day or any social media devices available for us to “check in” with. The absence of that last one was probably a good thing, eh? OMG! Could u imagine?! What would the "rents" think?

Is anyone of a certain age (say over 40 years old) laughing out loud or perhaps smiling inside to themselves now? Who remembers these coming-of-age moments? Did anyone suddenly think of someone (maybe from the opposite sex) that hadn't come to mind in 20 years or more? Remember that summer I was with so-and-so and that thing happened that I never told my parents (then or now) and we thought we were going to be (fill in the blank here)?

I do, because I watched my daughter travel down these exact same roads on her very own teenage journey into young adulthood these past few years. Technology may have increased the speed in which a kid's life unfolds each day, but summer experiences and coming-of-age moments have not changed much, expect for the fact that now after a specific event occurs, maybe a couple hundred of your closest and not-so-closest friends know—thanks to YouTube and Facebook.

Back then, we wanted to race through our summers. We couldn’t go fast enough. The minute we were indoctrinated as high school freshman, we wanted to be high school seniors. By the time we were first-semester seniors, college and life after college could not come soon enough! That race from start to finish has probably been going on since the dawn of the very first summer.

However now, uncharacteristically, I want to slow down my summers. I find myself temporarily hitting the brakes on my go-cart screaming down Kenton Avenue.

I no longer want to race up to the boards after a long day on the beach in search of what night will bring. Instead, I now wish to sit on the deck and converse with friends and family, stopping just long enough to enjoy a cold summer beverage, a cool summer breeze, and picturesque summer sunset.

As my mentor, Jimmy Buffett, sings, “Reflections not just replays, taking time to escape the maze, just hoping for some better days.”

Nowadays, I want to take a photo of my summertime moment or journal my thoughts of a particular summertime event before that moment is taken from me. Maybe after all these summers past, I realize there are only a finite number of summers still outstanding. I’ve now decided I want to make my summers count. Maybe enjoy some simple or cool summer experience while I still can. Maybe I want to take that old bedroom door jamb with its faded black pencil marks and replace it with a summer night at the drive-in movie theater with Marie or one summer morning surfing at Huntington Beach with Lauren.

I would like to think I have as many summer dreams left now as I once did when I was that little kid sitting on the Wildwood sand staring out at the big blue Atlantic Ocean, holding my yellow plastic bucket and shovel in my hands.

So I put on my short pants, T-shirt and flip-flops “uniform” worn only during the summer and get ready to face the next sunny day. With 50-odd summers under my belt, it really is the only way I know how to pass go and collect $200. Come to think of it, there may be a new “app” for that; but I’ll take my chances with my old-fashioned approach. It has yet to fail me in summers past.

Lauren, thanks for providing me with the inspiration for the title of this blog. May you, me and mom continue to have our health, time and enough economic resources to enjoy many more summers together. May we all continue to “Grow Older But Not Up,” starting with our upcoming Jimmy Buffett and Bruce Springsteen summer concerts.

Now if I can just find where your mom and I put that old Precious Moments height chart we hung in your room when you were small.