Reports From The Nursery (Part Thirty-One)

By Alexis, In Her Own Words

If you’ve been following my writings here for a while, you probably know that I’ve been wrestling with a dilemma for my whole mortal life (three years-plus, if you’re counting).

            You see, every newborn human comes into the world filled with memories of a previous life in heaven. Being transported out of there —where, as you can imagine, existence is pretty darn good— and arriving in a noisy, smelly, chaotic earthly world is not the most pleasant transition one can experience. Admittedly, much of the noise, smell and chaos comes from us newborns ourselves—but that doesn’t mean the sudden contrast is any more comfortable.

            As a result, the memories that arrive with us are pretty treasured by us. We’ve walked through lush green pastures alongside angels with fabulous tales to tell, when they feel like sharing; we’ve rested beside still waters among prophets and patriarchs, warrior kings and poets, great leaders like Moses and David (but not my Grandpa, I guess there’s more than one David). Even great enlightenment thinkers like Voltaire and Ben Franklin.

            Good times, as they say.

            Here’s the rub: as we start acclimating to our human life, every new memory pushes out one of our heavenly memories. Bit by bit, we replace our rich revelations with arguably more mundane stuff. I’ve personally lost knowing the precise total of stars in the universe when I learned it was not always wise to taste something you find on the floor. The latter is valuable information, but I have to admit I miss knowing the mysteries of the cosmos.

            Willy-nilly, all of us ultimately surrender our store of Heavenly memories and join the human race.

            I’m no exception. I’ve been fighting it, probably longer than I should have. After all, I rather enjoy sharing my memories and thoughts with you, my readers— and I’m pretty sure that my readership will dip precipitously when the best I can do is spell “cat” as “kat,” and regale all of you with what my Barbie doll was wearing today.

            Yep: I’ve decided to start talking. In human words, about human things. I do hate feeling my Higher Memories evaporate with each new syllable, but it’s inevitable. Besides, every new word I speak creates such delight among those around me— and that’s as touching as it is gratifying to me.

            So, Dear Readers, I’ll keep up these missives to you as long as I can. But at some point, you’re going to try deciphering something written in a chicken-scratch scrawl.

            In crayon.

•  •. •

Every season arrives as part of a public relations campaign. Spring promises a sparkling rebirth. Autumn self-markets itself as hard-won wisdom wrapped in crisp maple leaves. Winter insists that frostbite is merely the admission price for developing character.

            Summer, however—midsummer in particular—requires no advertising. It simply kicks open the door sometime in July, marches into the room wearing sunglasses at night and smelling of sunscreen, and announces, "I have arrived. Kindly adjust your thermostat, your expectations, and quite possibly your concept of fun-in-the-sun.”

            Deep summer is, beyond question, one of the most glorious times of the year: it’s when, as Porgy tells Bess, “th’ livin’ is easy.”

            It is also entirely possible that summer is busily, energetically, relentlessly trying to kill us.

            That contradiction is part of its enduring charm.

            I’m now living my third summer. Based on my experience, the older I become the more convinced I am that Nature embraces a sense of humor that borders upon the lethally mischievous. She stands quietly in the wings, letting the birdsong, fragrant blossoms, and gentle breezes of spring entice all of us outdoors. Then, just as we become thoroughly enchanted, she steps on stage, brusquely elbowing her more gentle sister-season and racking up the thermostat until the birds begin sounding winded, the flowers wilt and shrivel, and otherwise-lucid citizens consider relocating to, say, Iceland.

            Nonetheless, every July we wander outside again with astonishing optimism. It’s part of summer’s con job, of course.

            The sky is an unreasonable shade of blue. The clouds are sculpted from the finest whipped cream. Sunsets are crafted by painters who are paid not by the hour, but by the number of hues in their pallet.

            Everything glows.

            Children chase lightning bugs with the seriousness of Nobel laureates. Ice cream trucks become rolling ministries of hope and cheer. Lawn sprinklers draw boisterous crowds of the young; even the presumably mature adult feels a compulsion to wander into the spray—several times— "by accident.” Ordinary neighborhoods acquire a theatrical, Norman Rockwell grandeur.

            Of course, midsummer then proceeds to betray us all.

            The heat in July possesses a personality. Morning heat is, relatively speaking, polite. It displays a smile not unlike that on a sociopath’s face.

            By noon it has become less benign: not yet unbearable, but with a disquieting potential in its sting.

            Inevitably, by three o'clock it’s screening applicants for the position of Official Sunstroke Victim. The automobile parked in the supermarket lot is hot enough to bake bread on the dashboard. The seat belt has become a branding iron. The leather upholstery promises an agonizing sear on any exposed flesh.

            It follows faithfully from dawn until bedtime, embracing every passerby with the affectionate determination of an elderly aunt who has not seen you since Christmas.

            Then there are the mosquitoes.

            It has been said that if mosquitoes were six inches taller —and were Politicians— they would levy taxes. As it is, they merely collect blood, a more straightforward form of taxation that requires less paperwork.

            Skeeters are no doubt in league with their buzzing cousins, the flies. Flies possess no noticeable conscience and are particularly lacking in social skills. A fly behaves exactly like a man who mistakes a nodding acquaintance for a deep, intimate friendship. You wave him away; he assumes you are beckoning him closer, inviting his company. He flits away briefly; then returns with brothers, sisters, cousins. No human need to fear loneliness when a fly is in the neighborhood.

            Then there are yellow jackets, who conduct themselves with permanent indignation. One has the distinct impression that a yellow jacket awakens every morning already pre-offended by an outrage that has not yet happened but doubts not that you are at fault.

            And yet… by evening, their grievances — indeed, all grievances— are mysteriously forgiven. Nature’s ill-will drift away as the breeze returns. As it does, people emerge as survivors from a passing breeze.

            Porches fill, neighbors gather under streetlights, motivated only by the same impulse felt by all survivors of Nature’s heated wrath. Children linger at their play, long beyond their usual home-summons, because every child knows that summer evenings operate under different laws of time than the remainder of the calendar.

            Human beings are curious creatures. We spent the whole of July complaining about the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, the flies, the yellow jackets, the weeds, the lawn that grows faster than government regulations, and the tomatoes that somehow all ripen on the same Tuesday afternoon.

            Then, inevitably, summer fades. Suddenly, days are shorter— and far less extreme. Without the slightest sense of irony, people begin saying, "You know...I miss summer."

            Memory performs miracles no air conditioner has ever matched. It quietly removes the sweat while preserving the sunset. It edits out the mosquito and leaves only the lightning bug. It forgets the humidity and remembers the scent of fresh-cut grass.  We forget what was and settle into what now is.           

            Perhaps that is one of God's kinder gifts. If we remembered July exactly as it occurred, we might never venture outdoors again. Or want to. Instead, we remember it as it felt after the sun slipped below the horizon.

            And as a result, every year we gladly return to midsummer—to the glorious skies, abundant gardens, long evenings, porch conversations, children's laughter, county fairs, baseball games, and impossible sunsets.

            We know perfectly well what awaits us. The heat will be oppressive. The mosquitoes will file their claims. The humidity will embrace us like a sodden wool blanket.

            And still we come.

            For somewhere between the first firefly and the last crimson sunset, midsummer persuades us that the best chapters of life are almost always a little uncomfortable, thoroughly untidy, generously humorous, and altogether too beautiful to experience from behind a closed window. Like all memories, they cannot be held. They can only be experienced.

- end -

            (EDITOR’S NOTE: Alexis will return soon— after all, she promised, right?)