Endless Summers

My kids are jealous of my unfettered freedom as a teenager. Life without the constant barrage of technology in the late 80s was freeing, and summers were actually a time to relax and enjoy our youth. The world was soft, malleable. The streets, paved with sun-drenched asphalt, belonged to us. My friends and I—neighbors from every corner of the cul-de-sac—knew no borders. We spent mornings at the local park pool, where we swam without worry, splashing through the shallow end until we were pruned and sunburned. Afternoons were dedicated to roller skating at Skate Depot, our wheels carving patterns on the rink floor as we dodged neon lights and bad music. It didn’t matter what time it was. We had all the time in the world.

There were no schedules, only the rhythms of a small suburban town. The bike ride to the park was a sacred ritual. We roamed without destinations in mind and with the confidence that wherever we landed, it was exactly where we were meant to be. Dinner time was the only signal for when the day would end (“just come home by dinner time,” my mom would always say as I headed out the door). Until then, we were untethered, exploring the freedom of unstructured hours.

I remember walking to the mall with friends, or getting dropped off at the local theater, the smell of buttered popcorn hanging in the air as we settled into those sticky seats. Our summer memories, so simple, so uncomplicated, feel like something lost in time. Today, summers are orchestrated with classes, sports, lessons—organized fragments of a childhood that has little room for spontaneity. There’s no space for nothing anymore. Back then, nothing was everything.

-Melinda Honig, California