In the wise words from the Phineas and Ferb theme song, “There's a hundred and four days of summer vacation, and school comes along just to end it. So the annual problem for our generation is finding a good way to spend it.“ My children have pointed out that Phineas and Ferb must have gone to a better school than they did, since they never once got one hundred and four days off. I don’t know where to file a claim for their extra days.
The fact remains, summer is fast and furious in Minnesota, and the temptation is ever-present to pack everything in as much as possible. But my favorite summers as a kid were spent doing so little. Remember when summer was the time to relax? The less scheduled, the better. I long to get back to that sensibility.
I recall summers when my family went to the Boundary Waters. We went every year. We started out with four days, then tried five the next year, then adventured for a week. One summer, we went for two weeks. We always stayed at Heston’s Lodge at the end of the Gunflint Trail. It became “our place.” It is quiet. Simple.
Our family of four would set out in a rented Alumacraft boat for long days of fishing with an occasional break for eating. I would spend the day mainly reading with an occasional break for fishing. My brother and parents, casting and recasting their fishing rods while I lolled on the bottom of the boat, reading book after book, a pale pink scarf knotted over my head to block out sunburn and black flies. I read Danielle Steel and Ken Follet and Sidney Sheldon and Rosamund Pilchner. I’d get to the last page of something and fling the book down, only to pick up another, the book landing with a metallic thud, likely scaring away fish for miles. Our evenings were spent playing cards with the lake lapping in the background.
Maybe it is counterintuitive to create a summer reading list when outside activities beckon. But I associate summer with reading and being outside. A slower pace. Less on the calendar. Weekends having more time to lie down and stretch out and let the days unfold.
My summer is not my own. There will be obligations and needs of others to tend to. There will be travel for sports where we not only travel to dismal locations, but also stay in sad hotels that will never appear in any guidebook. But I will have my people and my books with me, and I will be out breathing in the fresh air.
Watch lacrosse. Outside with a light breeze. Walk the dog. Along a lake, please. Reading. On the lawn. Seeing friends. On a patio. Dinner. On the deck.
Recently, I passed by my local beach and grew nostalgic. When my kids were young, we lived at that beach during the summers. We ate ice cream sandwiches from the truck that stopped each day. We saw our friends, our neighbors, a few frenemies. We packed picnic lunches and sat out in the sun until everyone was tan, sand-covered, and exhausted. It was the simplest of fun. And I often sat in my chair reading a book, checking every few minutes that nobody had wandered off or broken a bone doing a backflip off the picnic shelter. It was everything I liked about summer.
I’m aiming for an endless summer this year. One that feels like one hundred and four days with unplanned days awaiting. I might even throw a cast or two. For what is a Minnesota summer without a fish story?
Summer al fresco.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.