Summertime is a strange, liminal time.
I've never really had a “regular” summer schedule (whatever “regular” means.) As a child and adolescent my life, like the life of most others, was determined by the start and stop of the school year. I took summer classes in college, and after graduation and marriage I moved to a college town. Those of you who live in similar cities know that the university schedule often determines whether or not the Locals dare to venture downtown, go to parks, drink at bars, or eat at the popular cafes. (Because of crowds of annoying freshman or big-headed seniors, certain parts of my town are pretty much off-limits during certain times of the year.) For a long time I worked on a college campus, and I'd spend the time from May to August sitting back, reading dozens of novels, and drinking delicious, blended beverages. Then I went to graduate school, and after I graduated my first summer of unemployment extended into an autumn of unemployment, a winter, a spring, and now another summer of the same.