There are countdown clocks in my house. Lots of them. All over the place. They are a constant reminder that for two of the three members of the family, school is quickly coming to a close. My daughter’s first year of elementary school — she’s in kindergarten. My wife’s first year of school — she’s a pre-school assistant teacher.
Soon they go into summer-time bliss. Semi-retirement. Partial shutdown. Or whatever it is you do when you have months at a time without school or work or anything imperative to do. Summer camps. Jobs around the house. Counting spider webs.
I wouldn’t know. There are no countdown clocks for me. No calendars with big, red Xs over the days. I work straight on through the molten lava months of summer, dreaming of vacation and free time and getting so bored that re-lacing running shoes becomes cause for celebration.
“Today I counted all the pennies in the change drawer. Tomorrow … QUARTERS!!!!”
Oh, if only it were me.
“You know how long it’s been since I’ve had an entire summer off?” my wife asked the other day.
“Yes!” I replied. “It’s been the same number of years since I’VE had an entire summer off.” (I might have been a little too snippy.)
I don’t want to sound jealous or resentful. It’s just that I AM jealous and resentful. I want a countdown clock, just like I had all those years ago. Their talk of summer has me getting nostalgic for my own childhood and the endless wait for those precious days of freedom.
Truth is, 15 minutes after break started, boredom set in. The toys all looked the same. The video games were tired and worn out. There was nothing on TV all day. Nothing but soap operas. Fifteen minutes into break and my brother and I were hooked on “Guiding Light” — laid out on the sofa as we were transported off to the land of mush for brains.
Putting on clothes each morning was work. Most days we just walked around in our underwear, lethargic and bumping into walls like zombies or burnouts or little old men.
Often we were thrown out of the house, sent packing by a mother who couldn’t stand endless questions like, “What time is lunch?” or “When are we going to do something?” or “Can you buy us a lobster?”
So we invented games … like falling off the garage roof. I don’t remember the goal, exactly. Maybe to see who went to the hospital first. But if it involved danger, we did it.
We climbed the oak trees in the backyard, swarmed in mosquitoes like a beekeeper raiding hives. We looked up at those towering beasts, explorers about to conquer Mt. Everest. We weren’t as tall as the oaks were wide, and they draped over our two-story house. We attacked them with wobbly aluminum ladders and ropes so frayed they looked more like carpets or scarves.
Up into the trees we went, affording us incredible views of the ground that was certain to kill us after we toppled over and bounced once or twice.
We launched epic grapefruit wars with neighborhood kids. By summer, what remained of the grapefruit was nothing but rotten, putrid, foul-smelling orbs swarming in fruit flies. If you got hit with one in the face, you needed an emergency skin graft. Clothes had to be burned, and for days you couldn’t get the pungent, vinegar-y aroma out of your nostrils.
Summer was incredible. And summer was mercilessly boring, usually waiting for some big trip out west with my dad or — explain this one! — school to start. Anything that required more Xs on a calendar. It wasn’t ever about “doing” something — it was the anticipation of doing something. Isn’t that always the way it is?
That’s what I want: something to shoot for. So I’m busy dreaming about my summer vacation. Planning for a big family trip to California. Checking off the days. Waiting. Anxious for it to come, but not too quickly. Because it’s the buildup that makes it special — the forever of waiting that makes it worthwhile. I want to savor it — savor that I finally have my own countdown clock in a house already full of them.