A Summer Memory

I’m in the backyard with my sister for the third consecutive Saturday. An old quilt is laid out, covered in books, art supplies, beer and our quarantine bodies. The days are getting longer again. With more time to waste, Sarah and I move from the sun to the shade with no sense of urgency or purpose. There is nowhere to go except back to the quilt when the shade gets too cold. It feels nice to have no responsibilities.

The birds are loud, happy and singing as early as 5am and flies have started to gather on our porch. The ants will soon follow. There are some crawling on the quilt even now. And because the air is warmer, all the downstairs windows are open to let the light breeze inside. Sunlight fills the main floor of our house. Am I naive to feel happy about it?

Summer will be here soon.

As the vaccinated make trips to leave the country, I feel fine staying here for the time being. (This quilt and my backyard are quite nice.) This laissez-faire attitude is nothing new. In fact, it reminds me of a summer that feels very long ago and far away.

***

Lawrence, Kan. 2011

I have almost too many friends traveling to Europe this summer then I’d care to admit. As hard as I’ll try to avoid the urge, it’s inevitable that I’ll be spending the next hour or so of my spare time skimming through endless photos of Italian cuisine, Parisian nightlife or girls in Hunter rain boots in the Irish Moors. It’s not that I hate their travel choices, it’s just that all their photos look the same. If I could afford to travel like them, I think to myself, I would do it differently…better, even.

Though it’s no le Boulevard Saint-Michel, today I feel content to walk the shady, bumpy state streets of Lawrence. I watch the now carefree college students take long drags of their cigarettes on their front porches and townies posting up at local bars even before the hour strikes 5 p.m. It’s humid out. And the heat hangs on me like a thick winter quilt. I walk to meet my friends at a local spot. We cool off by drinking Boulevard Wheat (or PBRs when the funds get tight) and stripping down to short shorts, white tees and tank tops.

We run this town. Or — so we like to think. There are no freshmen, no dorm rooms open, greek houses are shut down. Professors leave to go on vacation and some of our friends study abroad. The ones who couldn’t afford to travel like me stayed behind to either work or take classes. But no one is straining themselves by any means. There’s a listlessness to Lawrence summers that I feel is critical to its identity. Days are long, hot and lazy.

Me and my friends always end our nights at the Replay Lounge. The bar itself is arguably a shit hole. But the dance floor is outside and it feels romantic swaying to old 60s and 70s records under the Kansas stars. We keep ourselves cool by tipping back $4 rum and cokes and tying our hair up in big buns on the tops of our heads. All the boys wanted to dance with us and they’d buy us drinks to prove their affections. And sometimes it worked, sometimes we’d date them for a few months.

One summer night under the stars, a boy told me that I’d leave Kansas and never come back.

“You’re too restless,” he said.

“Yeah, but maybe I’ll come back one day?!”

He laughed but didn’t say anything back.

***

Back on the quilt, I’ve gotten too hot and my sister is ready to drive back to her place. No more time to daydream about past summers.

With the windows open, I can hear the trains pass through downtown. In my house on top of the hill, I watch the sunset as it travels across all those buildings and towards the ocean. Conversations of people walking on the sidewalk from the street below have started to fill my room. The longer days and warmer weather has brought the neighborhood out this evening. Another train goes by. Every time I hear their whistles, I think of Kansas.