Last Days of June

Last night we hosted one of those expanded Mead Street Dinners where you have to haul in an extra table from the terrace and the piano bench has three kids crammed onto it and even then there isn't quite enough room for everyone (I never did settle on whether we were sixteen or seventeen). More and more people kept appearing on the doorstep as three pots of Moroccan chicken simmered away on the stove; thankfully most of the guests arrived bearing bottles of wine or pots of rice or loaves of pound cake or gallons of ice cream, because I had begun to develop serious doubts about the adequacy of our own food supplies.

Luna (who is nine), wanted to know if we had any mint growing in our garden, because she was going to need some for her strawberry shortcake sauce. We did indeed, and by the time she was done mashing it up in our big glass bowl this marvelous concoction also included a handful of Linda's raspberries, a little lemon juice, and an unknown quantity of sugar. When Irene asked if she could stay for dinner too, I figured What the hell, might as well make it seventeen (or is it eighteen?). At the last minute I decided to supplement the chicken and rice with three boxes of Annie's mac 'n' cheese and some hot dogs.

And somewhere in the middle of the meal -- about half-way between a rousing rendition of "For Food and Health and Happy Days" and the moment when I realized there wasn't a single dish left in the cupboard and some of us were going to have to eat our mint-strawberry-topped ice cream out of tea cups and martini glasses -- as eighteen (or possibly nineteen) neighbors and friends sat cheerfully chowing down, drinking up, telling old family stories, and taking turns trying to get baby Colin to stick out his tongue -- someone pointed out that Ioan had been standing on his chair for the entire meal, crouching down briefly whenever he wanted to take a bite.

And all at once all the grown-ups clambered up onto their chairs, and stood there with their glasses held high. (A few of the children looked a little shocked at this, but Ioan beamed at us proudly, standing tall with arms akimbo, and Menna and Sarita did us one better by stepping boldly up onto the coffee table they had been relegated to.) "I'd like to propose a toast," someone shouted. "To July!"

"To July!" came the raucous, unanimous reply. And we all drained our glasses and sat back down.

July is indeed at hand -- and may it finally bring us the Summer we've all been longing for through this cold, wet Spring! But before we get too far into 2010's third quarter, I'd like to share a few memorable moments from the last days of June.


Heroic Endurance

I know everybody's all aflutter about the World Cup, but I hope some of you were able to tear yourselves away from the Ghana drama long enough to register the incredible first-round Wimbledon match between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut. They started playing last Tuesday afternoon, but had to call a halt with one set apiece when it got dark. Wednesday they started in again, and managed to split two more sets before settling into their fifth -- which you have to win by two games, no tie-breakers. Neither could break the other's serve: nightfall found them ten hours into the match, with the fifth set tied 59-59. These dazed and exhausted gentlemen then staggered home for some fitful sleep. Isner finally brought the match to an end Thursday afternoon by winning the fifth set 70-68. The next day he could barely move, and lost his second-round match to Thiemo de Bakker in straight sets.

I still haven't settled on the deeper ramifications of this incredible contest, but it seems like there's something to be learned here about a) hanging on doggedly until the other person gets just the tiniest bit more tired than you, b) recognizing that sometimes it's not so much your own skill as some kind of cosmic synergy that achieves such an historic feat, and c) not thinking that winning a record-breaking ass-kicking eleven-hour match on Thursday is going to mean you don't have to wake up Friday morning and play the next guy in line.

Heroic Attire

Then this Tuesday we learned that Wonder Woman is getting a new costume. Mostly we like it: the dark leggings and black boots are a clear improvement over bare legs and awkward satin shorts. The bullet-bouncing wrist-bands have morphed into street-fighter gauntlets. She's still got the golden Lasso of Truth, it looks like -- one of our favorite superhero accoutrements. And if at first glance the new outfit seems more modest than the old -- or less like a pin-up girl,  at any rate -- we couldn't help noting that when our heroine rears back to wallop a hapless bad guy, that boxy little jacket rides up to reveal the Wonder Boobs in all their glory.

Still, I'll always have a soft spot for the old school costume. Especially the version of it Mom made for Lexi in 1982. Lexi unwrapped it at her third birthday party, put it on, and didn't take it off again until first grade, at least -- in fact, some of us would argue that she never really did take it off.

Angler

On one of the two nice days that graced the last week of June (a dreary month that mostly we Seattlites will be glad to see the back of) I managed to carve out a rare moment of solitude in Volunteer Park, under my favorite camperdown elm. Camperdowns, if you're not familiar with them, have a straight-up trunk topped with a tangle of squiggly branches that arc out to the ground, forming a shady room underneath -- our friends the Neffs had one with a fairy gate marking the way in, and a table and chairs inside. This little one at Volunteer Park is overshadowed by a towering horse chestnut tree, so its sweep of branches only extends on one side. Still, when you're sitting underneath, you feel safely enclosed, enveloped in greenery, tucked away in a secret space that can contain your crazy thoughts long enough for you to dump them out and sort through them.  (I find this is a good way to feel in a rare moment of solitude, and it's one of the reasons I've grabbed my share of them under this tree in the last 20 years).

On this particular morning I was nudged out of my reverie by the cold nose of a dog, who was exploring the camperdownii cave while his owner -- just on the other side of the gently swaying wall of leaves -- unpacked his fly fishing rod and started practice-casting. After satisfying himself that I posed no threat, the dog lay down in the sun just outside my secret hideout, and we both settled in to watch. I wish I could describe how it felt to be hidden away under the camperdown, peering out through the leaves, totally transfixed by the angler's rhythmic motion: a whip of the rod, and the neon-green line would go soaring out, unfurling across the grass... then a snap of the wrist, and it would come fluttering, squiggling back. I'm not sure if the imaginary trout were biting out there on the lawn, but I know I was totally hooked.


Rock Star

Josie brought her amp home from school on the last day, and our Household Teen Ascendancy Index instantly jumped by several orders of magnitude. As we headed out the door that night to drop Simon off at what turned out to be his last Orca K-8 overnight with principal Ben Ostrom, we left our girl sitting on the front porch in her green mod cowboy boots, cranking funky bass lines out to the neighborhood. (The next day we learned Ben was leaving Orca -- yikes! -- after seven years of amazing, challenging, transformative leadership. Farewell, Ben. You will be missed, my friend.)

A few days later I delivered Irene and Josie to their first day of summer camp at Paul Green's School of Rock in Lake City. We arrived as instructed between 8:30 and 8:45 a.m., then stood around the locked front door with all the other parents and kids until just after nine, when two guys in leather jackets pulled into the parking lot. "Sorry guys," the skinny one mumbled as he brushed past me brandishing his keys. "Rock 'n' roll doesn't usually get up this early in the morning."

That afternoon at pick-up, I arrived in time to overhear his colleague -- a young man who seemed to have utterly and completely woken up in the intervening six hours (or at least consumed far more coffee than I had) -- deliver a passionate exhortation to the group. From what I could make out, it seemed to be an elaboration on a classic rock 'n' roll theme: If you don't take risks, you might as well stay home. "I don't let people run into big brick walls and fall down and lay there!" he bellowed. "No way! This is a mosh pit, people! When you fall down, we grab you by the shoulders and yank you back up, and we all keep going nuts!"

This seems like the right attitude to cultivate as we face the unknown joys and perils of the summer ahead. It may be true that sheer, stubborn endurance can earn us a place in history, if not an ultimate victory. And yes, we have to embrace the idea that change can be good -- as long as we find ways to  cherish the past, and carry its most powerful elements forward. I'm grateful, too, for the reminder that solitary rumination can only get a person so far -- and for the strange and beautiful scene the Universe concocted to lure me out of mine.

But all those bits of wisdom won't get us anywhere unless we're willing to pull on our gauntlets, lace up our superhero boots, and take a flying leap -- off the stage and into the crowd. Because this is a mosh pit, people. We look out for each other. We pick each other up. We hold each other aloft. And we keep. Going. Nuts.