Dirty Feet Are IN!!

I am somewhat chagrined with my daughter. She scheduled a hair appointment for herself for tomorrow morning at 9:00. In Macomb! That doesn't really work into my summer schedule. Here's how my summer schedule works:

6:30 or whenever I wake up a little I move from the bedroom to the couch out of courtesy to Jeff, who goes to bed a little after 7:00 and needs to sleep uninterrupted for several hours.

6:45 I go back to sleep for however long I want.

9:00, 9:30, 10:00, 10:30 Basically I get up whenever I want to get up.

11-ish lunch, which might just be a can of pork and beans. It's summer vacation.

11:30-ish work outside

3:00 shower and go to rehearsal.

9:00 home from rehearsal. Do some laundry. Read. Watch TV. Take the laptop to the hammock. Go see Damaris. Go get groceries. Whatever.

1:30 or 2:00 go to sleep.

This is my perfect schedule. I don't mind getting 8 hours of sleep, but it doesn't usually happen. If it does happen, I prefer the 8 hours between 2 and 10 a.m. Sadly, those hours conflict with my real job from August through May. June and July, though. . . man, those are my months. Those are the hours my body would pick, but the grown-ups in charge did not consult my personal clock when scheduling school.

It's not just the leisurely sleep patterns and decidedly white trash lunch menu. There's so much more than that. It's the sunshine and freckles and bare, dirty feet. It's the bare arms, open windows, and light nights. It's remembering that some rocks are more painful to walk on than others, but grass always feels nice. It's the astonishment over the size of my elm tree as I observe it from my hammock. It's the perfect-for-hanging-swings arrangement of branches in that elm tree. It's the welcoming, wrapping comfort of my hammock when I let it support me after I exhaust myself in the yard.

And there are the sounds of our 11. Laughter carries on summer air, and my niece and nephew laugh frequently. I can hear them, from their yard to mine. Summer is the sound of my mom, announcing her arrival to my yard with her customary "WOOHOO!" It's the sound of the disc swing clattering against the tree after Madeline jumps off and the slap of a ball into a glove as Nolan perfects his game. It's the sound of a voice from high above the yard, testing out the treehouse. And from across the street and across the yards, it is the scream of my dad's planer, a major part of his profitable and therapeutic puttering.

It is the conversations and jokes with Coop, the only one of my three who voluntarily helps in the yard. Even if he is, say, covered in the blisters from wild parsnip, he'll sit where I work and keep me company. It's his opinion and interest that aren't always so apparent. It's the camaraderie that has developed between us this past year. The barbs and jokes, the ridicule and requisite swearing that is ours alone. It's getting to know my son in the quiet shade of an oak and an elm.

It's the backyard battle wounds of a summer well spent. Right now I have a raw place below my right ankle bone, a blister on the inside of my ankle, and several cuts on that same foot. The cuts are the result of stupidity--running the weed eater and wearing shorts at the same time. Finally, today, I got my right foot almost completely clean. I've been working on it since Saturday when I ran the tiller in Crocs. The effect on my right foot was the opposite of a power washer. More of a power soiler, really. Since Saturday I've added to the ground-in grime with daily work. Of course I scrub my feet daily and try to get them clean. It just wasn't working out. Scrolling up the disaster that is me, I have scrapes on my arms from branches falling on me right after I cut them down. I should have a companion scrape on my face, but that branch didn't leave a mark. On both upper arms I have small round bruises. If I were a toddler you'd call DCFS. The only thing that abused me was a surly pair of lopping shears. I'm sore, but not in a bad way. Only in an "It's-summer-and-I-earned-it-way."

Naturally I have other marks of my time spent. The freckle count is up. The hair is lightening to blond instead of grey for a summertime reprieve. I have a collection of vanilla-scented items near my hammock to scare off the bugs, designated hammock pillows, and a stack of books I will read soon. The stress that ended my school year is soaking out of me as this season soaks in. My nose is red and my arms are turning brown. Summer is rubbing up against my life, and I hope it doesn't stop anytime soon.