It’s raining buckets here in Portland. We lucked
out with several unseasonably warm and dry weeks in January and now, as the
weather gods are wont to do, we are being made to pay for it with that
particular kinds of bone chilling rain that seems to define winter in the
Northwest. And so, of course, I’ve been dreaming of summer.
It’s the rain’s fault, really. Although not in the way you
might think. You see, normally, I ride my bike as much as possible. To work, to
school, to the store. But after getting a thorough soaking yesterday on my
way from work to the bus stop to pick up one of the kids, I decided all further
transportation this rainy week would take place in the car. And in the middle of
driving through this morning's onslaught, Huey Lewis and the News came tumbling out of the radio speakers and despite having to
squint out the window to see, even with the wipers going full blast, it was summer.
A summer evening, to be exact.
I don’t have a lot of memories that are linked so firmly to
music. Probably because I am the world's worst music identifier. The standing
joke in our house is that any time I’m asked “Who sings this?” I answer “Hall
and Oats.” Because, hey, it might be Hall and Oats. And if it’s not (well, even
if it is) I don’t know. But Huey, Huey
Lewis I know.
I would have been about eight or nine, right about the age
Evelyn is now. Old enough to come out on the boat with dad while mom stayed
home with a toddling Garrett. Old enough to sit on the deck of our cabin cruiser,
my skin prickling with that too much sunshine feeling that my children will probably
never feel since now-a-days, parents have to be sunscreen Nazis (with good
reason), and watch the wake from our boat turn from foamy waves into soft
ripples as they splay out behind us on our way across the lake.
There are all sorts of associated memories that pop up in my
mind when I remember those evenings. The sugar sweet strawberries and
cream taste of a Whistle Pop suckers from the marina gas station. The thrill of
fishing the cherry out of the Shirley Temple I would get if we made it across
the lake to that bar, the one with what seemed like a zillion steps leading
from the dock to the dining room. The smell of the water after a hot day, not
fishy or stinky, but planty, and green.
A great blue heron standing in the tall grasses along the shore, watching us,
watching him. The scratchy feeling of an old beach towel, the game of watching for the "Sea Pig" to cross our path. All tied up with Huey Lewis crooning in the background.
I can’t remember what the boat looked like. I don’t recall what was inside the cabin or what color the hull was. But I remember how much I loved being there. Adding layers over my swimsuit as the sun set and the wind picked up on the water. Seeing the lights of town twinkling in the distance on our way home, starting out like a shimmery mirage and then growing larger and brighter and more familiar the closer we got. I remember Huey Lewis singing “Happy to be stuck with you” on the beat-up black radio and thinking, “Yep, me too.”
-Gillian
I can’t remember what the boat looked like. I don’t recall what was inside the cabin or what color the hull was. But I remember how much I loved being there. Adding layers over my swimsuit as the sun set and the wind picked up on the water. Seeing the lights of town twinkling in the distance on our way home, starting out like a shimmery mirage and then growing larger and brighter and more familiar the closer we got. I remember Huey Lewis singing “Happy to be stuck with you” on the beat-up black radio and thinking, “Yep, me too.”
-Gillian