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Summer Afternoons  Our story tonight is called Summer Afternoons, and it’s a story about the possibilities of a special part of the day. It’s also about an empty Ginger Ale bottle filled with wildflowers, a walk by the railroad tracks, date bars, and park benches, and elevating the everyday. When I was a I loved the idea of afternoons. I even liked the word. It sounded languorous and unhurried. A nice long word with plenty of possibility in it. Thinking back on it now, it was part of a phase I’d been going through, of romanticism. I wore dresses with long floaty skirts and read poetry on park benches and daydreamed about how an ordinary afternoon could turn into an adventure. In all honesty, I never quite left that phase behind. I still romanticize many moments of my day. Still wander through dreamy possibilities in my mind and still love the idea of afternoons. Not being an early riser, mornings felt distinctly less inviting to me. But an afternoon implied some space. A few hours after the thickest slice of the day when you might stop into a cafe for an iced coffee. Or take a walk to clear your head. And “what if” on that walk, you found a key with a number scratched into it. The start of a mystery that led to a safety deposit box full of old newspaper clippings, the subject of which you matched to a headstone in the old cemetery. I laughed out loud at that silly story spinning part of my brain, the part that loved afternoons and “what ifs.” As I took my own slow, ambling walk beside the railroad tracks, the day was warm but there was a steady, strong breeze blowing that made even being in the full sun comfortable. I’d been helping out at the bakery today (as I did a few days a week). There early enough to rotate the trays of bagels and muffins in and out of the oven. To glaze donuts and slice sandwich bread and pack the strawberry rhubarb pies into their white boxes tied with string. To see them through the morning rush and a bit beyond. Then sometime after 1 or 2 as the tables emptied out, as sold out items were written in chalk on our 86 board - I’d be done. The baker always offered to make me and anyone else who was hungry a sandwich at the end of our shifts, and honestly I’d never turned her down. She’d been experimenting with fresh baked pita bread lately. Soft and a little chewy. Cooked quickly inside a very hot oven. And today she slit a bunch of them open and filled the pockets inside with a thin sliced veggie slaw, carrots, broccoli stems, cabbage and red onions, all coated with Green Goddess dressing. It was tangy and creamy and she topped it with sliced avocado and flaky salt. Beside it she’d set out date bar off-cuts, the scraps that we trimmed away when we were dividing them up into perfect squares. With my plate in hand, I’d pulled up a chair beside another of my fellow helpers at the small table outside the back door of the bakery and we’d both let out a deep sigh. A sigh of “work well done” and a bit of time to recharge. I’d gotten a Ginger Ale out of the fridge and it sweated in the warm air of the alley. In between bites he asked me “what are you going to do with the rest of the afternoon?” That was the moment this whole discourse on afternoons started. I’d smiled as the memory of those poetry books and park benches came back to me, about to take a sip of Ginger Ale when the spice of it made me cough a bit. I set my bottle down and he gently patted me on the back as I promised I wasn’t choking. I dabbed under my eyes which had brimmed when the ginger got the better of me. Telling him how I loved that word “afternoon” and while I had no firm plans, I’d definitely get up to something. He’d chuckled at my recounting of my twirly skirts and told me his teenage phase had been equally dramatic but featured more eyeliner and boxed dyed black hair. I agreed that we’d been conveying something similar back in those days just with different expressions. When my sandwich was finished and the plate bussed away, I’d grabbed my Ginger Ale and a large piece of the date bar cut-off, waved goodbye to him and made my way down the alley, That’s when I’d wound through town toward the end of Main Street to where the depot sat a block back. I liked to walk beside the railroad tracks. Talk about romantic. What if I hopped aboard a train headed due South of here and rode it for a day? Got off in some place where no one knew who I was and walked the streets of their downtown. What if there was a “Help Wanted” sign in the window of their bakery and hot pita coming out of their oven when I walked in? Would it mean I was meant to stay? I swallowed the last bit of my date bar and washed it down with the last sip from my bottle. There was a small path through the woods away from the tracks. I knew it well. I followed it down past the tree with the collection of pretty stones around its roots. I’d left perfect pine cones and the best giant red oak leaves there in the Autumn. I picked a few stems of Orange Butterfly and Purple Chicory as I went, feeding the stalks into my empty soda bottle. When I got home I’d just add a bit of water and I’d have flowers for the kitchen table. The path wove behind some old houses and through the leaves and branches I heard a screen door bang shut. I stood still, listening to see if someone was coming out or going in. I was on public land far enough from their backyards not to disturb anyone but still I didn’t want to startle or be startled. There was a rustling and footfalls a dozen yards in front of me and I wondered how this person was spending their afternoon. Were they out here to pick the huckleberries that were ripe and ready through the woods? Were they on their way to a secret assignation, avoiding streets and sidewalks so as to not be spotted? That’s when I heard the door bang again and a young voice call “Clover .. walkies!” And from the spot I’d heard the rustling, a sudden silence and then a quick ruckus as Clover, who through the foliage I could just see was a Golden Retriever with a blue collar, spun on the spot and raced back to his house. As I walked on and heard the screen door bang again, I imagined Clover and his boy reaching for the leash from a hook in the hall. A walk with your dog, a sandwich with a friend, a daydream along the railroad tracks. They weren’t the wildest adventures I could imagine but they left me with a deep warmth and contentment for my life right now. And who knew what I’d get up to tomorrow. Nothing Much Happens |
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What a lovely way to spend a summer day~~~ 
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I enjoyed the read and the subject matter. Very interesting.
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7/2/2024 1:42 pm |
What a lovely way to spend a sunny afternoon. I . can picture it all so vividly. as if I were there. 
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What a lovely way to spend a summer day~~~
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I enjoyed the read and the subject matter. Very interesting.
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What a lovely way to spend a sunny afternoon. I . can picture it all so vividly. as if I were there.
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There's a big difference between being romantic, and being A romantic. A romantic is sometimes considered just a dreamer, but I think we have a lovely outlook on things that makes life a little bit lighter. We often see beauty when others just see ordinary. Be a prism, spreading God's light and love, not a mirror reflecting the world's hatred.
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There's a big difference between being romantic, and being A romantic. A romantic is sometimes considered just a dreamer, but I think we have a lovely outlook on things that makes life a little bit lighter. We often see beauty when others just see ordinary.
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