What Summer is Supposed to Be

From as far back as I can remember, every week in the summer ended with a bbq. Neighbors would gather on their lawns, sitting on plastic striped fold-out chairs and the tailgates of trucks. Music would stream out of windows, and grills were set up on driveways. The remnants of the day's heat vanished as the sky turned orange and purple.

When I was in elementary school, Friday nights started early. My neighborhood friends, the six of us, loud and happy girls, would congregate at the end of the cul-de-sac. We would discuss how we would get mean ol’ Mrs. Johnson let us use her pool. Hers was the only house on the street to have one. Inevitably, we gave up and settled for running through sprinklers in Hilary’s front yard.

Her mom would bring out popsicles that she was famous for. Using pureed watermelon and lime juice, she froze them in plastic molds. They were my favorite part of the day. The six of us, wearing bright one-piece bathing suits, ran in circles giggling as we chased each other. Feeling wet grass between our toes, faces sticky with popsicle juice, our laughter was infectious. It was what summer was supposed to be.

- - -

When I was a teenager, the group of friends that once ran through sprinklers fractured, the transition felt harsh and abrupt at the time. Someone’s first boyfriend was the crush of another. One moved to the other end of town. The time we used to play was replaced with sports, dance, and science fairs. Most everyone seemed to go their own way.

On Friday nights, Hilary and I would hide in my room until my mom would yell in the door to get our butts outside. Grudgingly, we would drag ourselves out and typically end up around the fire pit on Mr. and Mrs. Larson’s driveway.

One Friday, the boy I liked sat next to me at the fire. I tried to play it cool.

“Do you like s’mores?” he asked me.

Unable to speak and my eyes open cartoonishly wide, I nodded. He laughed deep in his chest and pulled out everything we needed from his backpack. Roasting marshmallows on long metal skewers, he teased me for thrusting mine into the flames. I liked to watch the surface turn black, knowing the inside was a gooey surprise. He kept his just out of reach of the fire, rotating it slowly until it was a perfect golden brown.

He had me hold a graham cracker with a piece of chocolate on it. Laying my blacked marshmallow down, he took another graham cracker and pushed it down on the top. Our hands pressed the sandwich together. He slipped the skewer out, and his hand hovered over mine. I felt it through my entire body.

With both s’mores constructed, we walked to the grass and looked at the stars. The smell of the burning wood in my hair and the dancing light from the fire made everything magical. We turned to face each other and smiled as we took our first bites. Without warning, he leaned in and kissed me. The taste of chocolate on his lips left me breathless, the perfect first kiss. It was what summer was supposed to be.

- - -

After graduating from college, I didn’t make it to every Friday night bbq but did the best I could. Sitting in my car, I watched the typical preparations. Grills rolled out onto driveways and tables were set up on the sidewalks. Moms crowded the tables with large Tupperware bowls of macaroni salad and potato salad, both slathered in mayonnaise, seasonings, and diced-up veggies they had on hand. They added large platters of fruit and open bags of chips, smiling and drinking from tall bright colored glasses. Kids were running around in bathing suits, laughing and telling inside jokes. Before I could join, I needed to finish my phone call. A meeting that morphed into another session that had somehow become a two-and-a-half-hour discussion about global launches and the importance of maintaining a light environmental footprint.

Finally, off the phone, I walked to the chairs my parents always sat in. My mom was at the tables talking to her friends and my father smiled and waved at the men in the other yards. Sitting next to him, my phone pinged. I began to pick it up when it was removed from my fingers and replaced with a beer.

“Dad,” I said exasperated.

“It can wait,” he responded simply and slipped my phone into the front pocket of his Hawaiian shirt.

We sat in silence, watching as the sun begin its descent, smelling hot dogs and hamburgers on the grills, listening to the buzzing of all the action around us, and enjoying the sharp refreshing bubbles of beer on our tongues. It was what summer was supposed to be.

- - -

My husband and dad, with beers in their hands, tend to the grill. Flipping burgers, turning hotdogs, laughing at whatever they are talking about. My mom with the other grandmothers, fill tables with Tupperware bowls of macaroni salad, potato salad, mountains of fruit, and bags of chips. I stand in the shade of a large tree with the five girls I used to play with. The sky changing color, the temperature evening out, we watch our kids running through sprinklers, their faces covered in watermelon lime popsicles. This is what summer is supposed to be.