The Lost Summer

At my school only one teacher (new, from New York) asked everybody to write about what we did on summer vacation. Generally they knew: anything about people’s homes and families was confidential. You did not necessarily want people who weren’t your friends knowing whether you’d gone anywhere or done anything. When asked what we did on summer vacation everyone wrote “I stayed home. It was hot. I was glad school was closed.”

Actually my brother and I always had good, enviable summer memories to keep to ourselves, not to torment the envy-prone. They got better every year.

It was always “we.” Each of us wanted to hang out with same-sex, same-age friends the way normal kids did, but my parents didn’t want to be responsible for other children at our house. I don’t suppose they wanted us to be normal, either. A couple of times a year we might get to do something with a cousin or a neighbor’s young relative. Some things, like reading and drawing, we did alone. Most things, including my first job, my brother and I did together. My baby sister wasn’t old enough to be interested in doing the same things yet, but usually had to be dragged along, anyway, because Mother wasn’t well.

The summer between grades one and two, my Grandmother came to live with us, and I got a new pet hen. I was reading chapter books about people who were much older than I was. My parents liked that I was reading ahead of grade level, mostly, I thought, because it perturbed my teachers. Dad’s job was packing boxes of free food for poor people, most of whom didn’t bother to claim their food because it was pretty bad; during the rest of the month Mother and I got to experiment with recipes for making the surplus free food fit to eat.

Between grades two and three, we reared baby chickens who were real pets in a box in the chimney corner, and I learned to make clothes for my dolls, but then Grandmother died. That took some of the fun out of all the visits from relatives, the rest of that summer, though they brought us excellent presents. Dad was writing a lot of letters about how much better it would be if the poor people were given a way to buy regular food.

Between grades three and four, we went to Vancouver and saw the pine trees, but couldn’t go to the Fair because we had chickenpox, so we went back through California and saw the redwood trees. The poor people now got food stamps instead of boxes of food. In the summer, before Dad’s classes started, we got to buy regular food with food stamps.

Between grades four and five, we went to the California State Fair, and I sang with a church group that toured hospitals and nursing homes, and then a great-aunt left us our house in Virginia to stay in forever, no more rent. That was great news, especially for Dad, because the college didn’t want him to teach again.

Between grades five and six, we raised real crops of vegetables and strawberries, and canned, and sold, and boarded a pony. We played tennis and checkers. It was not considered unusual for kids to sing on key; even my sister could do that. Now my parents took us to entertain disabled people.

Between grades six and seven, the strawberries started growing, and we added a dog, and Dad put a swing set and climbing bars in the barn loft so we could be active when it rained.

Between grades seven and eight, there were fewer vegetables because we planted trees in the orchard, and longer hikes. The name “Cherokee” means “people of cave country.” Every family kept the secret of where to find a cave big enough for emergency shelter. We were shown where to find the cave.

Between grades eight and nine, we dammed the creek to make a pool big enough to swim a few strokes, and raised an orphan chicken all by itself, without a mother hen. Our parents rented a little house we used for a junk store. We were given stringed instruments to accompany our singing. I learned to play recognizable tunes on the autoharp.

Between grades nine and ten, we started living at home by ourselves while our parents minded the store, diversifying the vegetables, picking fruit. We started going into town by ourselves, and were finally able to haul enough library books back and forth to win the summer reading contest. Other people remembered that summer for its heat wave. We agreed it was the best summer we’d ever had.

Between grades ten and eleven, we finally had the chance to walk back and forth together to do separate, gender-appropriate jobs. My brother ran errands for a construction crew and I was nominally in charge of a summer school for the crew’s children (and my sister). That was a big year for fruit and vegetables, as well. We had a lot of work, a lot of fun, serious money in our pockets by September. We agreed that summer had been even better than the one before.

During the winter break in grade eleven, when we were in Florida, I took the GED exam just to see how I’d do. I did well enough that instead of finishing the year and going into grade twelve, the question became which college I was going to skip into. Instead of going back to school I visited libraries and colleges that spring.

Between grade eleven and college, at the first party of the summer, we went swimming. My brother was caught in an undercurrent and drowned.

There was summer that year. Fruit was picked. Books were read. Jobs were done. I even mailed some short pieces to publishers, who sent them all back. There was no summer vacation fun, that year, at all.