A Slice of Summer
Mood:
happy
Topic: Wisconsin
Every Tuesday night during June, July, and part of August, a throng will gather in a small park the size of one city block. All will turn their folding chairs and strollers and blankets toward a corner of said park where stands a bandshell. A director will come forth, introduce a sea of red jackets holding various musical instruments, and the band will play. Children romp. Seniors smile. Mothers stroll. Friends gather. Under the shelter, a church group will sell slices of pie and root beer floats. The Lions Club offers popcorn for $1 a bag. And right before intermission, the band will play "The Teddy Bears' Picnic," and all the children will line up at one end of the stage, climb the steps one by one, march across the stage to the opposite stairs, and then cross the lawn to do it again.
It's a scene right out of a James Agee essay, only it isn't Knoxville; this is happening right here in our corner of Wisconsin.
When the kids and I head for Bandshell Park in early June, it's like Summer, the Debutante, is making its grand entrance; school has just released its youthful prisoners for what seems like an endless span of freedom ahead. Everyone gathers at the park with a sense of readiness, an eagerness for the full summer in store. And that summer happens to include lovely Tuesday evenings with a marching band, some friends, and a slice of pie. By July, our summer in full swing, the tunes patriotic, the town has settled into its Tuesday evenings like one settles into a hammock: comfortable, smiling, and with no where better to go.
As we piled out of the van last night, the warm summer breeze cloaked us with the familiar sounds from the park. We situated ourselves on a blanket among the oak trees and the other patrons, greeting the passers-by with "Hello" and "How have you been?" and discussing how quickly the summer has gone. For it is now August, and we were taking in the band's final concert for the year. The kids, as usual, held out their hands to collect my dollars and distribute them among the Lions Club's popcorn stand and the Lutheran church's pie table. Tobey ran around the blanket, happy to be simultaneously outdoors and within his mother's reach.
Right before intermission, the director gave his customary announcement that precedes the children's march, always concluding with the warning, "Whatever you do, don't touch the director." And the kids queued by the steps and marched along the stage and crossed the lawn to do it again. Then the band spilled out of its shell for a break, and we found our beloved flute player, and we chatted about goings-on at home and at church. And then intermission was over, and the band struck up once more, and the evening light announced that the sun had set, and so should my children. The kids said good-bye to their playmates, and we picked up our blanket, steered the stroller toward the van, and piled back in. And as we did so, Summer exhaled its tired sigh. The birds, today dining on spilled popcorn, are growing restless. And so, really, are we.
In a few short weeks - a blink on the calendar - my children will board the school bus and the academic year will begin anew. Our thoughts will turn to autumn and pumpkins and, eventually, to snow and winter. Summer will be a long-forgotten dream.
That is, until June, when the lawn chairs are again taken out of their garages, and those red jackets again come out of closets, and my children again leave the quilt-beneath-the-trees with dollars in hand and summer in mind.
Garrison Keillor, eat your heart out.
Posted by Amy
at 1:58 PM CDT
incredulous
a-ok
not sure
chillin'
bright
party time!