Two nights ago it was 83 degrees at almost midnight. Tonite its 53 and drizzly and I’m suddenly realizing how much I missed this summer. It was never hot this summer. Not really. Never officially sweltering in the way the San Fernando Valley can get at the height of the long summer days. The concrete never got so hot that you could lay yourself out on it in the chilly night air to warm your bones. The hills never got so tinderbox dry that looking at them sent chills down my spine. The house never got so hot from days on end of triple digit temperatures that our air conditioning shut down in fatigue and sheer humiliation.
And now it is officially fall. Summer, lost in a chilly fog that shrouded much of Southern California, is technically over. The grey misty air that dominated the long days and robbed us of the joy of a late night swim sealed the fate of the memory of those months. Only last week’s few sweltering nights of Indian Summer – Harvest Moon hanging heavy in thick hot air – reminded me of what I love so much about the summer – what I love so much about summer in the valley – in the undignified “818”. That thick valley night heat hung heavy and sexy and dangerous for five whole days and nights. It was sad and romantic and thrilling. And it reminded me of younger days and of different times - not better but perhaps more vibrant.
Pardon me for sounding morose – I’m not really. It’s just that Sig Other is away as he was most of the summer, working like a man driven by unseen demons riding him to success. And I worked harder in my 44th year than I have in any prior. So summer passed in a foggy haze, too quick and not particularly memorable. There were milestones along the way – births and divorces and deaths – too many deaths. It was neither hot nor cold. Neither wildly fun nor terribly miserable. It was just a few months of no school for the kids that flowed quickly into shorter days with busy schedules. Summer 2010 was a quick blip on the calendar of our lives.