WMD: It's still a little less than a month away, but I declare summer to be officially under way in this week's column. Text follows here:
Sitting on my deck last weekend, I had a brief glimpse of summer. It can't come fast enough.
We suffered a long winter in Vancouver. It wasn't particularly cold or snowier than usual, but it was interminably grey, with one sunless day following another. Spring came almost unnoticed with more grey--and a last fit of snow--overshadowing the annual bloom of our cherry trees.
This past winter also brought to me more work than usual, with more stress at our workplace than usual, which is why last weekend was my first two free days this year that coincided with sunshine and warm temperatures. Waking up Saturday morning, blinking at the light like a survivor of a planetary holocaust emerging from his bunker, I finally felt the season change. I leapt past our limp spring and right to summer.
I sat for hours on my deck. Ate meals there. Drank beer. Read at length a real book. And watched people go by on my street. It felt almost like childhood, except for the beer.
A few columns back, I described the endless days of my childhood summers. I equated it then to a freer time in our society, but that adolescent sense of eternity also had as much to do with summer itself. Summer is about long light and unrushed days, of heat and dreamy reflection. In December, we eat too much, drink more than is sensible, rarely get exercise, shiver through commutes in darkness, rain and snow, and plunge into overcrowded, chaotic malls to spend far too much money on our holiday rituals. In July, we take afternoon naps in the shade.
We open our windows wide in summer, and ignore the thermostat until October. We go outside and rediscover outdoor spaces that in winter's cold would have been dangerous to our health. We clean up our patios and decks, liberate our lawns and gardens from debris, plant food and celebrate being alive with flowering plants.
Echoing our distant savannah ancestors who invented the first barbecue, we cook outside and share meals in the open air with family and friends. We venture into the parks and onto the beaches and let our bare feet feel the direct touch of grass and sand. We let our children run and yell and make only token efforts to rein them in. We fill the walking trails and bike routes and try not to notice the bickering between dog owners and the people they annoy. In winter, strangers appearing in the dark of the night give us pause. On a summer's night, off-leash dogs, the odd beach stabbing or a riot on a fireworks night not withstanding, the same strangers might be an occasion for a chat.
If we're brave, we hit the ocean water and let the salty coolness wash over our bodies. We swim, sail and surf. Or we lie on the sand and pretend we've done all three.
We lose our clothes in summer, and in a supposedly casual city that remains hung up on ancient Anglo-Saxon guilt, newly restrained by an Asian sense of propriety, such freedom cannot be underestimated. We bundle up in winter, and because this is Vancouver we do our best to appear hip but end up looking like fashionably dressed astronauts. In summer all pretense is lost. The dress of the day is shirts or light tops, shorts or skirts and sandals. Repeat throughout the week.
The shedding of clothing is also when we realize how beautiful so many of our citizens can be. Yes, some of us should remain hidden, swathed in layers of fabric to prevent the rest of us from spitting up our coffee. But so many others, of all ages and both genders, are blessed. On sunny days, in shopping districts like South Granville, the girls of summer come out in flocks, lightly clothed and strolling unselfconscious in their loveliness. Ordinarily sober, serious columnists innocently lounging at sidewalk cafes suddenly lose their train of thought in mid...
And we read. I used to think the long-standing tradition of reading in summer was a bourgeois indulgence propped up by boring newspaper features about what books local celebrities are taking to the "cottage." But now I understand why people choose summer for reading. There's plenty of natural light, you can read outside anywhere you can throw down a blanket and cooler, and because you've worked throughout the winter in confined spaces to escape the dark and cold, books are needed to rekindle the soul. Television doesn't feel right in summer. Movies become more mindless than usual after Victoria Day weekend. Books are what save us. Live music, too.
Summer officially starts in a little under a month. It ends too soon. I started mine early, and despite the return of grey clouds this week, it's not going to stop until it absolutely has to--perhaps in mid-November.
Today's bLINKit: If real life were like Second Life, a video.
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