In some ways, this has been a strange summer. And in others,
it seems just as summer should be. The strangeness began with the early closing
of school – both the physical school building in mid-March and the release from
remote learning at the end of May, two and a half weeks before the originally anticipated
last day of school. The kids have been home nearly four months already, which
hasn’t happened since before they went to preschool.
For large chunks of that time they have been left on their
own to entertain themselves and each other. If necessity is the mother of invention,
well, boredom seems to be a good motivator.
With no big trips planned this summer, no fast-moving weeks filled
with the happy chaos of cousins visiting from California and Texas and
Tennessee, no camps to attend – there are a lot of hours to fill. Some of these
are taken up with books or puzzles or board games, others with screens, a few with
chores, and some spent around the corner at grandparents’ houses.
The rest is time outside – alone or with each other, roping
me in when I am not typing away or meeting-by-zoom in the hot office upstairs.
We’ve had a couple of big hiking days, with more anticipated later in the summer.
There’s the occasional bike ride. But for the most part, the kids have to find their
own fun – or invent it.
For weeks this spring, after the snow had melted from the
yard – during that long stretch of time
where we didn’t go anywhere or see
anyone outside of our own family – we held daily 2 v. 2 soccer games late in the
afternoons. We rotated teammates every other day and argued every call. It was an
unwritten part of the daily schedule, a reward for making it through another
day of school via Google Classroom.
In the weeks since school has ended, the kids have cycled
through several rounds of self-propelled amusement. There’s a rudimentary rope
swing hanging from the branch of a maple tree near the edge of the yard, and
the skeleton of a fort in another corner. For a while there was an obstacle
course climbing and twisting through a series of natural and kid-made
structures. They’ve created a disc golf course and three variations of foot
golf courses, weaving around gardens and through trees to hit the designated
targets. The actual golf clubs have made only one brief appearance.
Only recently have we expanded our pandemic era circle to
include a few friends. We hike through the woods toward mountain summits
together, or meet at the river in the afternoons, where the kids skip rocks and
choreograph synchronized leaps into the water.
Many days, as I make my way through working remotely, the
kids make summer plans up as they go along. There is no itinerary, no set
agenda, no schedule mapped out by the hour or the day.
But there is hot sunshine and cool, clear water just down
the hill. There are bikes in the garage, hiking boots in the mudroom, and
flipflops strewn across the front porch. There are trees to climb, friends to
meet, towels hung on the line to dry between splashing in the pool and leaping
into the river. There are books to read on long, lazy afternoons and fireflies
flickering through the tall grass of the field after dark.
While we are missing some of our cherished summer
traditions, I think maybe this is how summer should be, even if just this once –
completely unmapped, unplanned, unbusy. Strange, perhaps, but sweet, too.
Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay
appears as Meghan's July 9, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton
Record.
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