[Image: “Let Me Rest, Human,” by John Brighenti. (Found on Flickr, naturally, and used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you very much!) Depending on your point of view and willingness to suspend disbelief, the squirrel may seem either (a) stupefied by the colossal heat of a summer day, or (b) distracted to the point of immobility by some thunderous emotion. Knowing that the photo was taken in midsummer 2020 doesn’t make choosing the point of view easier.]
Summer in Manhattan, circa 1949:
It is seven o’clock and I re-examine an ex-speakeasy in East 53rd Street, with dinner in mind. A thin crowd, a summer-night buzz of fans interrupted by an occasional drink being shaken at the small bar. It is dark in here (the proprietor sees no reason for boosting his light bill just because liquor laws have changed). How dark, how pleasing; and how miraculously beautiful the murals showing Italian lake scenes—probably executed by a cousin of the owner. The owner himself mixes. The fans intone the prayer for cool salvation. From the next booth drifts the conversation of radio executives; from the green salad comes the little taste of garlic. Behind me a young intellectual is trying to persuade a girl to come live with him and be his love. She has her guard up, but he is extremely reasonable, careful not to overplay his hand. A combination of intellectual companionship and sexuality is what they have to offer each other, he feels. In the mirror over the bar I can see the ritual of the second drink. Then he has to go to the men’s room and she has to go to the ladies’ room, and when they return, the argument has lost its tone. And the fan takes over again, and the heat and the relaxed air and the memory of so many good little dinners in so many good little illegal places, with the theme of love, the sound of ventilation, the brief medicinal illusion of gin.
Another hot night I stop off at the Goldman Band concert in the Mall in Central Park. The people seated on the benches fanned out in front of the band shell are attentive, appreciative. In the trees the night wind stirs, bringing the leaves to life, endowing them with speech; the electric lights illuminate the green branches from the underside, translating them into a new language. Overhead a plane passes dreamily, its running lights winking. On the bench directly in front of me, a boy sits with his arm around his girl; they are proud of each other and are swathed in music. The cornetist steps forward for a solo, begins, “Drink to me only with thine eyes…” In the wide, warm night the horn is startlingly pure and magical. Then from the North River another horn solo begins—the Queen Mary announcing her intentions. She is not on key; she is a half tone off. The trumpeter in the bandstand never flinches. The horns quarrel savagely, but no one minds having the intimation of travel injected into the pledge of love. “I leave,” sobs Mary. “And I will pledge with mine,” sighs the trumpeter. Along the asphalt paths strollers pass to and fro; they behave considerately, respecting the musical atmosphere. Popsicles are moving well. In the warm grass beyond the fence, forms wriggle in the shadows, and the skirts of the girls approaching on the Mall are ballooned by the breeze, and their bare shoulders catch the lamplight. “Drink to me only with thine eyes.” It is a magical occasion, and it’s all free.
(E.B. White [source])
But as whiskey river reminds us, many summers elsewhere, elsewhen, provide glimpses of such magic:
Later in Life
(excerpt)I step out and suddenly notice this: Summer arrives, has arrived, is arriving. Birds grow
less than leaves although they cheep, dip, arc, a call across the tall fence from an invisible neighbor to his child is heard
right down to the secret mood and the child also hears. One hears in the silence that follows the great
desire for approval
and love
which summer holds aloft, all damp leeched from it like a thing floating out on a frail but
perfect twig end. Light seeming to darken in it yet
glow. Please, it says, but not with the eager need of
spring! Come what may, says summer. Smack in the middle I will stand and breathe.
The
future is a super fluidity I do not
taste, no, there is no numbering
here, it is a gorgeous swelling, no emotion, as in this love is no emotions, no, also no
memory—we have it all, now, & all
there ever was is
us, now.
(Jorie Graham [source])
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