There’s something to be said for endless summer, both the film and the concept. There’s also something to be said for moderation in seasonal changes. I’ve lived through both.
Growing up in Baltimore, the Mid-Atlantic’s top contender for charming rust belt champion of the century, I swam through a lopsided seasonal change. Summer heaved. It sweltered. It smashed you with thick air and mosquitoes, leaving you punch-drunk by sunset and it was at least a little more bearable in the dark, and maybe if you were lucky you didn’t stick to your seat when you stood up. Still, the pool was glorious (maybe it’s why we have so many great swimmers coming from Baltimore, including of course the GOAT Mikey Phelps, who trained at the pool where I lifeguarded). Going “downyoshun” — on a trip to, say, Ocean City, was glorious. The smell in the air when a breeze pushed in ahead of a much-needed rainstorm was the greatest smell in my life.
Yes, summer was brutal but at least the shoulder seasons made it worthwhile. Spring, when the cherry blossoms bloomed. When lacrosse season took over our part corner of Baltimore. When the depressing leafless trees dotting a dead landscape came back to life. In the fall the colors are still more diverse and dramatic than anywhere I’ve lived since.
Growing up in the mid-Atlantic the winter was cold but not cold enough for regular snow; the trees turned skeletal, the grass shriveled, and you had to put on more clothes but that was the extent. After the excitement of Christmas in an old, charming city in America’s first Catholic state, the world hung in some climate limbo. It wasn’t the classic Currier and Ives winter but it wasn’t Cali/Florida t-shirt weather year round.
Yes, where I live now we have dramatic seasons. It’s something to cherish, and the demarcations of these changes, specifically this one where winter’s deep duvet of snow ebbs as dormant leaves and flowers roll in, deserves some real ceremony.
This past year has been about renewal. Taking commitments seriously. Getting back in shape. Throwing a backflip for the first time in 15, 20 years. Can’t help but think back to that winter, and that spring, when I last felt immortal and threw a lotta backies. Along those lines, it was appropriate to do a pond skim, first 1 in 10 years (maybe 11?) and this one alongside my son, who was a baby the last time I walked on water. I didn’t make it, no. Some things don’t just get better with age. But I went for it and goddammit if that’s not what life’s about, I don’t know a damn thing.
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