Summer Memories

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Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
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Derry, NH
Thanks, I just try to follow the memory and find the moment. The crux.
Is it that time? The memory can continue, so it does. Minivan packed with people, related by blood, travels up the interstate at a snail's pace, yes❤️the dangling participle .
Dad had a reoccurring dream: he was driving down a back road and all of the dashboard lights malfunctioned at once, and there was an oncoming driver in the opposite lane. That night he did nod off on the way home.
 

Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
3,973
22,555
47
Derry, NH
Thanks, I just try to follow the memory and find the moment. The crux.
I'm working while writing, this is not perfect

Canoeing in Kennebunkport:

This was a college summer I spent canvassing for the Sierra club on a quest to save wolves, the environment, and the spotted owl. The Subaru had no radio, my dad felt like he was saving money by purchasing it sans radio. Thus, I spent that summer singing to myself in the car. We were based out of Portland, but some longtime family friends lived in Kennebunkport. I had no idea how much of a memory that summer would be. My mom's best friend and her husband owned the house, a picturesque weathered domain of perfection, complete with backyard garden, indoor library, and a kitchen that I only recently have coveted.
The best part about the property was the river that ran through the back. Yes, the river ebbed and curved lazily along the golf course on the Bush property. That was not the highlight, by far. There was a spot where you could bank the canoe and climb up up this craggy rock face. The view from the top caused startling currents of electrical anticipation to pulse trough my body. It was high. I mean a height much higher than logic would dictate one should venture to jump from.
I did anyway, over and over. I couldn't get enough of the exhilaration of the fall, followed by the river's vast embrace. Her depths new no end.
 

swiftdog2.0

I tell you one and one makes three...
Mar 16, 2010
7,095
35,344
Macroverse
I think I wrote about this one in an old "when we were kids" type thread a ways back, but I'll re-tell it here.

Summer of 1989. Back when 'ole SwiftDog was really still a SwiftPup of 15 soon to be 16. I and several of my friends went to a midnight screening on the opening night of Batman starring Michael Keaton. Movie theater was packed. Movie was sold out. Lobby was sweltering and the people were getting antsy. We find out the theater over-sold the movie. Lots of yelling, pushing, and shoving to get a seat. Lobby gets trashed. One of my friends rips down the standee of Weird Al promoting UHF which came out that same summer. Surreal scene of the cardboard Weird Al being crowd surfed across the lobby. Several near fights as people shove their way into seats. I got a seat in the second to last row. Weird night.
 

The Nameless

M-O-O-N - That spells Nameless
Jul 10, 2011
2,080
8,261
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The Darkside of the Moon (England really)
I have vague memories of the summers of the late 80's-early 90's. The area of Liverpool I'm from is called Netherley, and local community members would organise "the Netherley play and arts project". There was a local (maybe even pirate) radio station called Radio F (which stood for freedom) and they would play dance music of that era, there would be hotdog and burger stalls, giant inflatables for the kids to bounce on, and face painting - mostly Ultimate Warrior masks (like I said, late 80s). It was just a big open free community thing, something that would never happen now. This is a picture from one of them, I'm in it (the one in the purple t-shirt, bottom right, don't ask what I'm doing - it was the 80s/90s) I think I was about 9 or 10.
44743_1471837896373996_451961867_n.jpg
 

swiftdog2.0

I tell you one and one makes three...
Mar 16, 2010
7,095
35,344
Macroverse
Lounging by the pool.

Throwing my buddy's sister (who I secretly had a crush on) in the pool.

Getting banned from the local go-cart track for monkeying with the governor on the motor so we could go faster than everyone else.

Late night crusin' and conversations about how I would never, ever be one of those stuffed shirt business types (that one kinda backfired :) Not a stuffed shirt but I did end up a business person, much to my dismay.)

Cranking through the SK back catalog on lazy summer days.
 

mjs9153

Peripherally known member..
Nov 21, 2014
3,494
22,165
I have vague memories of the summers of the late 80's-early 90's. The area of Liverpool I'm from is called Netherley, and local community members would organise "the Netherley play and arts project". There was a local (maybe even pirate) radio station called Radio F (which stood for freedom) and they would play dance music of that era, there would be hotdog and burger stalls, giant inflatables for the kids to bounce on, and face painting - mostly Ultimate Warrior masks (like I said, late 80s). It was just a big open free community thing, something that would never happen now. This is a picture from one of them, I'm in it (the one in the purple t-shirt, bottom right, don't ask what I'm doing - it was the 80s/90s) I think I was about 9 or 10.
View attachment 16734
Ha,ultimate warrior,and all the old eighties,nineties stuff..by then I was older,I was a kid in the late sixties and early seventies,as a little guy going to the library on a hot summer day was not all bad..it was quiet and cool,air conditioned in a time when very few people had them in their houses..we had a super librarian,she was so nice..and on a hot summer day,we would have story hour,which her daughter hosted..little cups of juice and ice cream,and we sat entranced as she read to us.Then back out into the hot sun later to run and play and chase as kids will at that age..a few years later,Mrs M had a horrible fire at her house,and one of our playmates died in the fire..it was a rough thing for our little burg,and I never knew what to say to her later as she continued to be my librarian,through the junior high and beyond years..but she remained the same good person,she was always so kind to me,and liked that I enjoyed reading so much..those were the days of banana seat bikes,fishing with cheap poles,and playing outside until we were mom shouted back home as dusk fell..
 

Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
3,973
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47
Derry, NH
Was it just before dawn? It was still dark as I wandered through the Phoenician suburban neighborhood wearing a plaid skirt, a pair of black sketchers, and a clingy tank top with some slogan or design indicating my desperation. My thoughts raced with frustration and wonder; why did the atmosphere shine red today? How was I going to walk eight miles to a doctor's appointment? I carried two broken cell phones and a cordless landline. The landline I had grabbed inadvertently and stuck in my purse.
Two police cars slowed down and nearly blinded me with their high beams, then passed. I made it as far as the next gas station before I used the pay phone to call a friend for a ride.
Voicemail: "hey, just wondering if you were still able to give me a ride to the doctor today. I'm at the Chevron . . ."
I wait 15 minutes and I'm about to continue to walk when a yellow paving truck pulls in to the Chevron, and parked in front of me. I don't look up immediately because I know I don't know anyone with such a truck. The man boldly steps out of the truck and advances towards me with a friendly smile on his face and asks,
"Hey, are you needing a ride?"
I told him that I did not, but he looked at me with a knowing smirk, inquiring further,
"are you sure, because a friend of mine just called me and said to pick you up here"
I weighed my options; I didn't know this man, but I trusted my friend. At this point, my appointment was null and void; I would be too late by the time I got there, and the heat of the Arizona sun was a bearing down on me. I reluctantly got into the passenger's side of his truck. I knew I wanted to go home, but I was going to have him drop me in my neighborhood. As I started to give him directions he turned to me and said,
"oh, I know where you live and that's not where we are going."
I instinctively clawed at the door handle to no avail; not only was it locked, but we were driving on a major road and the prospect of leaping from the truck was disheartening.
As the miles passed, the landscape became remote: dry riverbeds, vast expanses of brown, cactus speckled desert, and a distinct lack of residences or businesses.
Eventually, he veered off the road and drove into the desert itself. My heart pounded with fear as I looked around the cab for anything I could use as a weapon. The man outweighed me and I was woefully unskilled in self defense.
I found nothing. He continued to prattle on about movie making and photography, blatantly ignoring my useless statements about how we were going the wrong way, and my inquiries regarding our destination were met with steely eyed creepiness.
We stopped and he groped around the back of the cab until he withdrew a metal crowbar.
"Let's take a walk"
. . .TBC
 

Jojo87

Prolific member
Jan 8, 2009
7,468
19,518
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Finland
I had my best summers when I was a child. As a adult my best summer memories is 2013 when I was able to visit NYC and Maine for
the second time and when we had the first kon. 2014 I met my boyfriend (now partner) and I had the best summer with him. So much
good memories from the past.
 

Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
3,973
22,555
47
Derry, NH
- Sand beneath my feet and stark mountains line the horizon, mocking my foolishly imagined exit. The sun shines brightly in the dead center of the sky. I am following this man with a crowbar and what appears to be a camera, listening to his rambling narrative about a photo contest that he wove in to his one sided banter which included (to the best of my recollection) a lecture on the evils of drug use, the evil that men do, and the weather.
My surveillance of the surrounding landscape served only to harden my resolve.
I knew that feeding into his game by allowing my terror to show would serve no useful purpose for me.
Yes, I was scared! My thoughts were of the last moments I had spent with my children, and how they would overcome the loss of their mother. What if they never found me? What would my mother do if I were missing? (I found out later, but that's another story)
Daddy, what the hell am I going to do? He chose not to respond from beyond the grave. Surprising: he responses are immediate!
Now we come to a geographical anomaly; a desert river gorge flowing with crystal clear water.
"Someone could fall into that river and never be found." his ominous sounding comment caused me to smile and respond instinctively,
"at least they would have water"
He glanced down, continuing to walk on a determined path to no where. My reserve grew stronger,
"It is nice out here, isn't it. Are we almost there?" Truthfully, I knew he had never set a destination but this tactic worked - to an extent.
"Yea, I think that tree over there is perfect"
The tree was bare limbed and devoid of leaves, it looked more like a giant stick.
"I need you to take some pictures for this contest"
He hands me the camera and poses against the tree, one hand absurdly clinging to the crowbar, the other on his belt buckle.
I quickly snap a few photos. He wants to see them but I don't want to go to the tree. I stand still, peering into the camera as though I hadn't heard him.
He swiftly strode over to where I stood and grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and the camera dropped like a stone to the desert floor. He is pulling me back toward the tree and I am telling him to stop.
He tells me what he is going to do.I can almost hear this pulsing alarm in my head; the intense, insistent jarring buzz of a disaster drill.
"no"
he pulls me toward him with one hand and I notice that he ha dropped the crowbar at some point.
I try to wriggle out of his grasp but now he has both hands on me.
"come on, just . . .sit with me for a bit" ( he said more but I wasn't listening)
And that's all for now
 

Moderator

Ms. Mod
Administrator
Jul 10, 2006
52,243
157,324
Maine
- Sand beneath my feet and stark mountains line the horizon, mocking my foolishly imagined exit. The sun shines brightly in the dead center of the sky. I am following this man with a crowbar and what appears to be a camera, listening to his rambling narrative about a photo contest that he wove in to his one sided banter which included (to the best of my recollection) a lecture on the evils of drug use, the evil that men do, and the weather.
My surveillance of the surrounding landscape served only to harden my resolve.
I knew that feeding into his game by allowing my terror to show would serve no useful purpose for me.
Yes, I was scared! My thoughts were of the last moments I had spent with my children, and how they would overcome the loss of their mother. What if they never found me? What would my mother do if I were missing? (I found out later, but that's another story)
Daddy, what the hell am I going to do? He chose not to respond from beyond the grave. Surprising: he responses are immediate!
Now we come to a geographical anomaly; a desert river gorge flowing with crystal clear water.
"Someone could fall into that river and never be found." his ominous sounding comment caused me to smile and respond instinctively,
"at least they would have water"
He glanced down, continuing to walk on a determined path to no where. My reserve grew stronger,
"It is nice out here, isn't it. Are we almost there?" Truthfully, I knew he had never set a destination but this tactic worked - to an extent.
"Yea, I think that tree over there is perfect"
The tree was bare limbed and devoid of leaves, it looked more like a giant stick.
"I need you to take some pictures for this contest"
He hands me the camera and poses against the tree, one hand absurdly clinging to the crowbar, the other on his belt buckle.
I quickly snap a few photos. He wants to see them but I don't want to go to the tree. I stand still, peering into the camera as though I hadn't heard him.
He swiftly strode over to where I stood and grabbed my wrist, twisted it, and the camera dropped like a stone to the desert floor. He is pulling me back toward the tree and I am telling him to stop.
He tells me what he is going to do.I can almost hear this pulsing alarm in my head; the intense, insistent jarring buzz of a disaster drill.
"no"
he pulls me toward him with one hand and I notice that he ha dropped the crowbar at some point.
I try to wriggle out of his grasp but now he has both hands on me.
"come on, just . . .sit with me for a bit" ( he said more but I wasn't listening)
And that's all for now
I have to ask if you are recounting an actual event that happened to you or if this is fiction as we can't allow that on the Board--lawyers' orders.
 

Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
3,973
22,555
47
Derry, NH
I'm sorry to hear that but relieved you're still here to tell the tale. Sounds like things could have gone a completely different way.
Yes, I started the memory a few posts before and wrote TBC, it's not something I've ever written about before and somehow ( as I was explaining to someone who inquired ) writing the account as though it were fiction made it easier. If it hadn't committed to writing it in a "summer memories" thread, I would have changed to the third person POV.
Thank you and I apologize for any confusion. I'm leaving it unfinished but you can infer that I lived!
 

Nomik

Carry on
Jun 19, 2016
3,973
22,555
47
Derry, NH
Well, since I've brought to the tone of this thread down a few notches by attempting to comply with the "less seductive" request, allow me to redeem myself:
Did I ever tell you about the time I caught my first bluefish? You see, the rule in my family was that at age 12 you are initiated to the craft. Up until then, my experience had been limited to catching mackerel, flounder caught in the bay by Seabrook nuclear power plant, the occasional sand shark, and of course, smelt. That's not entirely true; I did my fair share of freshwater fishing as well.
Catching one's first bluefish was a right of passage in my family. My dad felt that I would be ready by the time I was nine. He spent hours in the basement, handcrafting fishing rods. I would often venture into his workshop, smelling epoxy and watching him wrap fine thread around the graphite pole forming a beautiful pattern by the grip. My very first fishing rod made by him had a diamond pattern because, "diamonds are a girls best friend"? Never made much sense to me either, but it allowed me to catch plenty of small freshwater fish.
He begin crafting my Bluefish rod months before my ninth birthday. No surprise that the pattern was simply of blue fish: small then large, light blue, dark blue, a perfectly rendered reflection of my father's artistic craftsmanship.
He wanted to convey to me the veracity with which a bluefish would fight. We practiced many days in the backyard; he would grab the line and play the fish, trying to match the weight in the fight by pulling on the twenty pound test line.
Nothing would prepare me for the actual fight! I have been on Cap'n Mindy's chartered six person boat out of Rye Harbor on many occasions, but this was my first Bluefish excursion. The company included my dad, the cap'n, and some other male relatives/acquaintances of my father's.
I can still smell the Seaspray and feel the wind on my face as the boat picked up speed just outside the harbor and headed out to sea.
I can't remember what we used for bait, but I do remember someone throwing chum out along the side before we stopped. I cast my line and before much time passed, my line suddenly darted, and the rod was nearly yanked out of my little hands!
This was not a force that I had been prepared for; I had to use my entire body to brace the rod, clamping it between my legs and leaning against the side starboard side. My rod bent over double, as I watched swells rise and fall, I never lost focus. At first, the fish took the line out swiftly, throwing sparks off the line despite my reeling. I quickly ascertained that the only way for me to reel the fish in was for me to use both hands on the reel itself, winding it with every ounce of force I could muster.
My dad stepped forward to intercede and I just remember yelling and glaring at him
"no daddy, let me do this my own way!"
That fish fought like a son of a gun for at least twenty minutes. I was growing weak, my strength fading. Eventually, my weary little hands maneuvered that reel so that the fish was next to the boat, at which point my father gaffed it and brought on board.
The first thing he did was hang it on the scale: twenty pounds!
I don't know if any of you have ever caught a bluefish, but it's a big deal when you are nine years old. That's not a fish story.