Summer of 1975

As I lay awake in my full-sized bed, in what was formerly the nursery, a room so small it could support but one more piece of furniture, a chest--I felt fur tickling my cheek. A cold dread drenched me and a fear hit so great it sucked the breathe out of me. But it was just dark, a Saturday night in the middle of summer. One of those magical summer nights of childhood. I was young enough to have to be in bed by 9:30 but usually milked it to more like 10:00 (with excuses like "a glass of water? A tissue?" "I'm hot" or "I've got to pee"). Still, the beautiful residual light of the day painted a subdued rosy glow onto my ceiling through my lace doily curtains. Curtains, I might add, that made me feel terribly grown up. The "growing up" of the room had taken place on my 12th birthday, four months before. The full-sized bed replaced a twin, a white wicker chest replaced an old ratty wood chest that was destined for the trash; those beautiful white curtains appeared, and a sunny yellow daisy wall paper covered the walls. I carefully made my bed every morning with my very grown up white chenille bedspread. Of course the precise placement of my stuffed animals (all 12 of them) with the last addition of my most prized possession, Buzzy the doll, made for the perfect room.

It was quite an eventful summer. I started babysitting in the neighborhood. I camped out most days in a corn pasture building forts. I roamed the neighborhood with my older sister and had great games of tag, corn wars, and kickball with the neighbor kids. My damn sister. Forever my tormentor, forever letting me take the fall. Two years and 10 months older, she turned out to be a brilliant negotiator, brilliant schemer, and brilliantly devoted. The battles we would have were epic--think World War One AND two.

I watched a dog break its' front legs. I had a crush like none other on a boy that was 3 years older at the back of the neighborhood and a woman down the street committed suicide. It was the summer of the great Western family vacation--two weeks of togetherness, food poisining, tornadoes, bats, buffalo burgers, rodeos, cowboy hats, and speeding tickets. It was also the summer I split my sisters' chin open with a golf club.

So much was packed into that one summer that the ones which followed never seemed to shine quite as brightly.



On December 22, 2020, my mother passed away after a long and courageous fight with breast cancer. My mom possessed many qualities that made her who she was: she was passionate, driven, stubborn (at times, much like myself), wildly articulate, selfless, and loving. Among the many passions and talents she had, at her core, my mother was a writer. Her ability to bring life to a page was unlike anything I had ever read before; the vulnerability and realism she infused into her stories and journals kickstarted the fire that pushed me to become a writer, and only continually inspires me now to create stories that I can one day gift to my own children. So I give to you "Summer of 1975." A raw and real recollection of my mother's days of adolescence. A glance into what one summer nearly 50 years ago was like for my mother, Carol Whalen, during her childhood growing up in Louisville, Kentucky. It can ultimately be viewed as many things; a nostalgic trip down memory lane, a reminder of the joys of youth and innocence, or even simply an intriguing read. But for me, it provides intimate memories from my mother that allow me to learn more about her, and most importantly, it allows for her to live on forever.