La Dolce Vita Estiva

We lived in a typical wartime house on the south end of town. A single maple tree dotted most front yards, though ours had a swing my Dad built. I was always proud of that. It felt like a little notch above the other neighborhood kids. I imagined it felt similar to when someone in the neighborhood had a pool, though nobody in ours did. Each backyard was nothing more than a bland rectangular patch of grass, and on sunny days my sister and I dragged our deck chairs to the middle of it, plugged our ghetto blaster into the extension cord and fed it through the kitchen window to blast the Cranberries or Counting Crows. Sometimes we listened to the radio to hear of any concert ticket contests we could try for. We lathered our bodies in tanning oil, and spritzed our hair with lemon juice, setting a timer to remind us to turn over every twenty minutes or so. Two whole months stretched before us with nothing to do. Those summers tasted like sun-drenched peach juice dripping down my chin, and salty, soggy chips from wet hands diving into the bag after a swim at the local beach. The hours ticked by while our parents were at work; too young for jobs ourselves, we basked in the freedom to choose what the day would bring. I can still taste the penny candy from the variety store on the main street. We'd swing our little paper bags around for all the neighborhood kids to see as we walked back home from our splurge. Some days I'd buy the giant jawbreaker and lick it while we walked until my tonge was raw and stained red and blue. We tried all the new flavours of pop from the dispenser, and mixed them together melting a popsicle into it and called it swamp water. In the evenings, Dad would put the sprinkler on and ask us to pick snap peas and cherry tomatoes from the little garden that lined the edge of the yard. We'd split the skin of the peas open pulling from the vein and count how many were in each, popping them in our mouths like m&m's as we worked. Back then we still ate meat, and so those summers tasted like grilled hamburgers with too much ketchup and mustard, homegrown garden salads and buttered and salted corn on the cob. Mom proudly used the corn holders I had made at school which were bright orange melted plastic and hard to hold with greasy fingers. On Sunday evenings after dinner, Mom, my brother, sister and I would get on our bikes and head over to the park to listen to the music playing on the barge. Dad didn't like the crowds and said the style of music wasn't great, so he stayed back. Some evenings it was an Elvis impersonator, or an old-folks band that played songs I'd never heard of. But it brought a crowd, and families sat on picnic blankets or camp chairs until the mosquitos came out. That or the donation basket started getting passed around which split the crowd up pretty quickly. On humid evenings we were allowed to get an ice cream from the concession stand, but mostly we swam near the shore while Mom listened to the music. She knew all the songs, and sang along to each one.

Looking back I am ashamed at how much garbage I ingested and understand now why our dentist bills were so high. But when I close my eyes and remember those days, it's not so much the sugary treats but the local summery produce that make my mouth water. It's those same foods grown from the land that create the memories my own kids are making. They too pick snap peas and cherry tomatoes from our garden. They too have sun-drenched peach juice dribbling down their chin after a swim. In the early summer evenings, my kids will pull up a chair outside and help to shuck the corn. We visit the local farm to pick strawberries at the beginning of July, and another farm in early August to pick blueberries. Every Wednesday my kids and I head to the farmers market to look for Ontario grown peaches and apples, asparagus, zucchini and carrots. We sample all the berries, and sip lemonade from mason jars on our picnic blanket while we listen to the music on the barge on Sunday evenings. My hope is that these become their memories of summer; and while I try to cultivate the experience of local fruits and vegetables grown from the land, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that their summers are dotted with fry stands after a day at the park, and a slice of pizza on a bench after a library visit; movie popcorn in the backseat of the car at the drive-in, and after dinner walks to the ice cream shop. Summer means indulging in la dolce vita - the sweet life. And to me that includes a little bit of everything under the sun.