We’re
on the verge of December as I write this and yet I am still thinking about summer.
Gord Downie said it best: “we live to survive our paradoxes.” Mine is that I was
reared in northern climes but have morphed into a creature that thrives on the great
gales of energy unleashed amid hot, muggy summer temperatures. In that spirit, here
are a few anecdotes from the Hot Zone, the peak heat of August. The soundtrack for
this time is the sonic euphoria induced by listening to Katrina and the Waves’ “Walking
on Sunshine” or the entire Steve Miller Greatest Hits album. The flavor is watermelon
and cucumber salad washed down with judicious amounts of light American beer.
Summer
trip to Hiroshima
It’s the family, stupid. After the night ramble
down the 800 kilometers of expressway between Yokohama and Hiroshima, I was ready to revel in
vacationland. So…Carp/Tigers baseball with a bud; 10th wedding anniversary with
my beautiful and indulgent wife; BBQ and pool fun for the kiddies to escape the
oppressive heat (at least 38-39 degrees Celsius every day); and, finally, a spell
camping at the beach on the Japan Sea coast. From my journal: “Morning at the beach
in Hamada: 1) really terrific swimming 2) Elena happy 3) Marina produces a tape-measure-worthy
turd.” Awesome!
Doolittle
in Doigehama
Somehow
the schedules aligned where many old buddies (who have also stayed on in Japan)
all managed to further align our vacation schedules for a couple of days off as
husbands and fathers. The only ground rules are no wives and no kids. We met at
the same camp spot we scorched a few years ago. Basically, we exorcised the resident
employment demons through revelry with a tempo like a Pixies song —loud/quiet, quiet/loud—
dependent on iPad technology and catnaps, punctuated by yet-more BBQ, Costco
muffins, fireworks, and random romps into the ocean to cool off and rehydrate. It
was two days of outstanding fun. As our middle-aged batteries wore down, quiet snoring
in the afternoon sun was the order of the day.
Before
I knew it, I was driving the family vehicle back to Yokohama with my friend James
riding shotgun, sans family, which had
wisely opted to stay with Naomi’s kin for a few more days. I guzzled coffee
in quantities that should have stopped my heart in order to remain conscious as
I captained the blue ship homeward. We arrived back in the Kanto region in one
piece. Before I knew it, I was on a plane, then in the desert of Southern California
at a work event, cranking out the words and frequenting Denny’s “for my health.”
At this point, the pace was relentless and I kicked in the afterburners, fueled
by Bud Light and the manic elation prompted by seeing the Dodgers and the Red Sox
play. The rest is a blur not unlike the end of 2001: A Space Odyssey: “My God—it’s
full of stars.”
I
jumped a plane eastward and barged in on my parental units for a visit that, to
them, likely seemed more like a 28-hour hostage crisis. Then back to Japan via a
flight schedule that was more complicated than dollhouse assembly instructions
on Christmas Eve after a few fingers of Jameson’s.
And
thus I found myself back at home in Yokohama at about 0600 on the first Sunday
in September, with the two Rising Daughters groggily starting their day, my
brain still somewhere over the Pacific, and the local temperature climbing quickly
toward the high 30s with a hootenanny level of humidity to boot. I would…have
it no other way. The Rising Family, fully intact once again, christened September
with a dip in the local public pool, a dispensing of gifts, and a feast at Red Lobster
to celebrate our XO’s birthday.
The
flavor of August was a blend of sweat, watermelon and jet lag. It was the best
month of this year, hands-down. Yet, September had its own charms…
