Summer has officially begun its reunion tour, performing at all the Tanglewood festivals of me and just like that the file drawer that houses my seasonal memories has been flung open and I am awash with memories of summer days gone by.
When I was little, my blue collar parents somehow managed to magically pony up enough proletariat scratch for a shared cabana out on the south shore of Long Island, Silverpoint, where we dutifully went, we Jews of the desert, hungering for as much sand as possible. I suppose it was our Eastern European genes. Plus we shared the cabana with an Israeli family, The Kamils, so that made it even more outdoor temple.
The beach of those days was what the Brill Building composers and lyricists wrote about rhapsodically. It was not the beach of today by any stretch of the imagination. It was quieter, almost reverential, save for the occasional transistor radio that dared to blare rock and roll or the you-are-there Mel Allen and Red Barber calls of the Yankee game. Everything about the radio felt more intimate at the beach. It was like it was broadcasting your innermost thoughts and desires, matching them up perfectly, with just the right sun giddy tune.
The air smelled like Atlantic Ocean and the lighter fluid which ignited the grills like a sea of mini Pompeis.
We all slowly dissolved into brown over those months, like slow cooking bacon. Girls wore bikinis that seems to magically make them shimmy when they walked. The concession dispensed unimaginably cold Popsicles that made your tongue stick to them and over at the public pool, a million people bathed together like slap happy seals.
My dad was lord of the blue and orange striped chaise chair in those days. He was a hard working workerbee and those weekends and occasional getaway week days were beyond therapeutic for him.
It felt like he sunk deeper into the sand than most. His contented smile were more radiant than the virtually defeated but not quite smile that he would flash in the winter when he would finally make it home after having battled his way through gobs of silent snow and the bitter rivalry of commuters.
On weekends, at the end of a hard fought beach day, which sun narcotized my sister and I by that point, we would fly home in our oversized Ford Apollo On car rocket. I would crawl up to the now long lost shelf area that was wedged above the back seats against the arched rear window where I would settle in like a tail fanning cat, marking my nap territory, as the fast moving stars above whirled past like I was looking through the fast spinning lens of a cardboard kaliedescope.
A mournful, unbearably heartfelt Frank Sinatra was transmitted directly to us, like a phone call from Mars via William B. Williams whose smooth, dipped in vintage whiskey voice could be heard with crystal clarity on the softly lit, ivory keyed radio. Frank and all the other crooners sounded like they were singing only for the lonely and exclusively for us. They were, after all, the perfect soundtrack for this very moment. Surely they must have known that. They were grown ups after all and grown ups, especially moms and dads, always seemed to know exactly what was needed to be provided.
My dad would puff away at his Bering Plaza cigar/ritual peace pipe as delicately as a first grade kiss, while my mom dissolved to the consistency of pancake batter, touched no doubt, by the moment of perfection that was the culmination of virtually every single dream that she had ever had.
We sailed like rich people on a south of France yacht, heading for the concrete sanctuary of our tiny apartment in Hollis, Queens which always seemed to be waiting for us like a tail wagging happy to see you dog.
The creamy dreaminess that lulled us into that sublime state of summer serenity feels, today, as remote and benign as the corner curling, color fading snapshots of our family albums that sit on forgotten back shelves or in the deep, holy hell jungle of our closets, feeling, I would imagine, every bit as invisible as as the plain faced, mournful wallflower girl at a school dance. I feel their presence. I can almost hear them call my name and perhaps they are. Because in truth, they are forever ready to be called up, by the conscription of our innermost heart, ready to parachute back into the war zone of our lives, behind tall the enemy lines that we've created, ready to follow to the death the five star common sense general of our day to day life maneuvers.
The summer and the heat still have the power to hypnotize me, like the scent of fresh cut roses, with every sensory awakened bite of corn, fresh strawberry or wedge of watermelon. They become my one way ticket back, far, far from the lunatic rantings of politicians, the endless news of cops obliterating yet another black boy or the frantic fear of terrorism.
I have the power, I have discovered, through eating and writing, to return to the Twilight Zone of my life, back to a place that is my own personal Willoughby, where fish are plentiful, the music giddy and everyone is really glad to see me.