June is rushing toward us. Hallmark employees will be gearing up for overtime with graduation and Father’s Day falling within the month’s thirty day run. Looking back, I wish I’d bought a few shares of Hallmark stock back in the day. Five Mother’s Day cards set me back over $30 earlier this month.
Graduation ceremonies will have nestlings picking up caps and gowns in preparation for their last walk as students down high school football fields across the nation. Lining up for their certificates, proud parents will cheer them on from the stands drying their eyes and madly snapping pics with cell phones. Tears will be shed both for grown children about to take the first steps toward adulthood and the massive college debt looming over their heads should the kids opt for a higher education.
Whether graduating for the year or for good, summer vacation stretches out once the folding chairs are tucked away and the tassels packed in plastic. Summer vacation when in school is like the brightest star in an otherwise dark sky. On its approach we’d mark off the days, daydream through our classes, and eagerly await the ringing of the last bell signalling freedom, blessed freedom. Never do feet move faster, or voices raise in a more joyous chorus then when the teachers close their attendance books for the year and students are released on an unsuspecting public.
Parents, on the other hand, often celebrated less. Having lingered over that last cup of coffee when the kids hopped on the bus during the school year they were now faced with several months of kids under foot. This meant added meal and maid service, and the ubiquitous “I’m bored” starting up once the newness has worn off. I was never bored, well not often. It always seemed there was something to do. In those tender years I made my home in Southern California. If you can’t figure out something to do in Southern California you’re just not trying. The beach, a thirty minute drive from my house, was where we made our home most of the summer months. Not surfers ourselves, we were definitely admirers of the sport, in particular the brown-skinned males balancing atop the colorful waxed boards. Like gorgeous Greek gods they skimmed along the crests of the waves noses decorated with wide slashes of zinc oxide. Armed with bottles of baby oil and iodine bikini clad young women swarmed across the sand en masse each day setting up shop within range of the muscled lifeguards lest their services were needed or a glance was to be cast in their direction. It was a glorious time filled with gossip laden conversations, bologna and cheese sandwiches, and iced sodas dripping from the cooler.
When not at the beach, sitting in the movie theater, or floating in the pool, I was left to find other things to occupy my free time. Four friends and I were joined at the hip during my high school years so whatever trouble we pursued, we pursued collectively. Sleepovers were common at my house. For my thirteenth birthday I was given a full sized canopy bedroom set including two dressers, night stands, and vanity. Barbie couldn’t have asked for more. Baby doll pajamas in place we danced to the music playing on the small record player in the corner. Over bags of Oreos we plotted our lives, wrote in our diaries and dreamed of a future full of love and laughter and happy days. I don’t believe any one of us inserted any reality into those moments. Perhaps we all needed that time to simply believe in the glory of love, without dousing the flames with bills and dirty laundry. If we hadn’t, perhaps marriage might not have come so easily.
On one particular hot Southern California night with three of us in attendance, my parents were invited to a party. Deciding by some wild stretch of faith we were responsible enough to man the fort alone we were given a handbook of instructions and left to our own devices. A whole night sans parents was almost more than could be believed. Shorts and tee shirts in place we headed out the door in search of adventure, I believe on page twenty-four of the what not to do section of our handbook.
Construction was in progress during the day on the street by the high school, which was where we found ourselves after the men had gone home. Not much to do, we lounged on the grass and discussed how fun it would be to steal one of the large wooden saw horses blinking caution around the holes in the asphalt. I know. I would like to believe the final decision wasn’t mine, but considering my history I’m sure my voice was heard rising above the mix. In a flash we conceived a plan to take the horse home, keep it for a few days and then return it to its proper spot. As many things in life, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Hiding behind bushes and sneaking along fences on the way home, not an easy task when carrying a large blinking object, we managed to get it in the house. Thinking we could turn the blinker off, after much tinkering, tugging and pulling, we found we could not. Deciding instead to take it back, my parents came home early. Oh-oh.
With no other plan on paper, we stuck it in my walk in closet and covered it with blankets. I can remember thinking it to be a rather powerful light as even with burying it with fabric a shaft of light remained visible under the crack in the door. My mother, still giddy from the party, drifted in on a wave of Narcisse Noir perfume to offer up a good night kiss and congratulate us on leaving the house still standing. As usual I’d left a discarded article of clothing on the floor for her to trip over. Bending to gather up my discarded shirt, the light gave one good blast. Sigh.
Our theft was uncovered, the lecture ensued. My stepfather, an unfiltered cigarette madly flicking on his lower lip, went on non-stop about my probable life behind bars while loading the purloined “blinking horse” (not his words exactly) in the trunk of his car. Two weeks later, once again in trouble for a curfew violation, I faced another bout of restriction. Handed the silver polish and my mother’s decidedly large collection of sterling, I decided I was not cut out for larceny. The remainder of the summer I devoted to reading Perry Mason books and convincing my parents the nuns at a local convent were definitely not ready to have me as a student in the fall.
On an unrelated subject, the ten year old blind cat I’ve been loving at the animal shelter got adopted last week. At 10 with obvious health issues, it came as a lovely surprise to find her cage empty when I arrived on Thursday. Inquiring as to the identity of her rescuer I found out it was a woman who said she takes in children and animals with special needs who otherwise might be passed by unnoticed. I don’t know her personally, but I’m sure somewhere there are a pair of fluffy white wings waiting for her. Stories like that restore my faith in humanity.
This salad is beautiful on the plate and so, so refreshingly good.
Grilled Fruit Salad with Creamy Honey Lime Dressing
1 large head of butter lettuce, or 2 small heads
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 cantelope, pared and cut in 1/2″ thick wedges
1 peach, seeded and halved
12 bing cherries, halved and seeded
12 blackberries
12 strawberries, sliced
1/2 cup red onion, thinly sliced
8 large mushrooms, sliced thin
2 oz. Stilton cheese, crumbled (I used Stilton marbled with cranberries)
Brush canteloupe and cut side of peach with olive oil. Grill over medium heat, about 5 mins. per side, or until grill marks are evident. Chill. Cut into bite sized pieces.
Wash and shred the lettuce, distributing into four salad bowls. Equally distribute all remaining ingredients between the four bowls including grilled fruit. Serve with dressing.
Serves 4
Creamy Honey Lime Dressing
1 cup mayonnaise
1 cup sour cream
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 cup cilantro, chopped
1 Tbsp. EV olive oil
1/4 cup lime juice
1 Tbsp. honey
Pinch of salt
Place all ingredients in food processor and blend well. Add salt and pepper as desired. Chill for 1 hour before serving.
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