I can’t wait for summer so I can get out into the Great Outdoors. The quality of my life will go up about 500 per cent when that blessed day comes that I can don shorts and sandals and venture out of doors (what a strange expression).
Fun, fun, fun till her daddy takes the T-bird away.
Groovin’, on a Sunday afternoon.
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy.
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of suuummarr!
Summer arrives soon and I’ll be there, on my front porch, to welcome it with wide open arms – arms that have been slathered with greasy, smelly sunscreen. I will look skyward and feel the warmth on my face and neck, both areas treated in the same fashion as my arms.
I will catch a glimpse of the sun, but not look directly into it, as I wear my UV ray deflecting clip-on sunglasses. My wide-brimmed hat will prevent that same golden globe in the heavens from toasting up the top of my head like a Sunday morning omelette in a frypan.
Yes, I will slide on my $40 sandals, which have more straps, sticky fasteners and clips than the average parachute. The straps will cut into my feet as I walk along, leading me to wonder how long I will be able to hold out on the inevitable fashion faux pas that lies in my future – the socks and sandals horror that befalls so many aging males on our direct and irreversible descent into total uncoolness.
On this day off work, I will glory in bending and stooping to pick up dog dung, tree twigs, discarded pop cans, chip bags and stones from my front lawn. I will water wildflowers and weeds alike and try to figure out which is which, taking a guess and yanking things out that look like they shouldn’t be there. I will err most of the time.
I will climb atop my stepladder and dig out by hand the heavy layer of maple keys and other rotted crap lining the insides of my eavestroughs and as I do I will enjoy the earwigs that slither down my arms and neck as they protest being disturbed from their beds.
From the interlocking paving stones below, I will sweep up the keys and the small mountains of sand that have been excavated and elevatored to the surface by the millions of ants that live in their underground towns and villages, maybe even cities, in my yard.
At lunch, I will attempt to barbecue and finding my propane tank empty, will carry the light container across the street to the gas station and haul the very heavy full one back, enjoying the sensation of the sharp steel cutting into my hand and the dead-heavy canister pulling my arm from its socket.
Finally, a family lunch of burgers, corn on the cob and watermelon out of doors which we share under the maple tree around the plastic table and chairs from which I have spent half an hour with water pail, sponge and garden hose removing bird droppings.
Eating this tasty meal will involve a lot of handwaving and vigilance to ensure that part of the diet does not involve those little black beer bugs or strawberry beetles or whatever they are. I don’t like those guys.
Finally, after an afternoon of cutting lawn, trimming bushes, cleaning shed and garage and swallowing gallons of cold liquid to replenish my dehydrated body, all the while trying to avoid the intense interest of bumblebees the size of hummingbirds and wasps with murder in their hearts, there is time for a little front porch sitdown to enjoy the setting sun.
But first, all exposed skin must be slathered with insect repellent – making sure it has DEET – to avoid those mosquito bites that could pass on to me a lively dose of West Nile Virus. Having missed a spot or two, I will spend some time later administering calamine lotion on the lucky targets those flying finks found before going to bed to enjoy tossing and turning during the long, hot, humid night.
Only a few more weeks to wait.
Seems like an eternity to me.
©2005 Jim Hagarty
