Living in swimsuits.
Eating on the screen porch. Every meal.
Biking to the pool. Biking to the beach. Biking to friends.
This is the summer you learned to swim. All three of you. You've never been so tanned before. Marty actually asked if it would wash off because he didn't like it.
You kids experienced a true sense of freedom this summer unlike any other. Can we go for a bike ride? Yes. Can we go to the park? Yes. Can we go to the pool again? Yes.
It was the summer of yes. Proximity made it all comfortably safe and convenient. The summer of novelty and warm lake breezes. Hot nights in the third floor with overworked window units. I loved hearing the whir of a jet ski through the window in the early morning. And the neighborhood awakening to a cadence of tread meeting pavement before dawn. Sometimes my own.
We chatted with new neighbors over cold beers in back yards. The kids decorated bikes and eventually warmed to other small people and dogs at the block party. Our neighbors like to make good food, so we should fit right in. Everyone is very friendly, but I know from experience that these relationships are built on the passage of time and circumstance.
Helen did a day camp for two weeks, and Joan started cross country practice the first week of August. Between those things, summer reading, and all the outdoor fun there was little time for boredom. Though there were moments. Nothing that couldn't be solved by putting ourselves in chairs for dinner.
Now, in mid-September, as cold begins to settle around, our evenings are filling up with working integers, "what is a quasar?" and the need for extra blankets. It's a good thing that summer helped fix this new place in our minds as one of wonder and opportunity.