The Boys of Summer...Aren't Gone After All

It's a mild Wednesday afternoon in Northeast Iowa, about 3:00, the temperature hovering around 70 degrees, not a cloud in the sky, a storm having blown through the night before and its nourishing rains bringing a vitality to all life that depends on it; the wildlife seemingly in more abundance, the grass greener, softer even, the air clearer, cleaner…the weather is truly picture-perfect, even the people I have encountered today seemed refreshed and joyful, myself included. Outside of the open windows of my Airstream the Yellow River is rolling gently, its cascades lulling me to sleep as I lay down for my ritualistic afternoon nap.

I am at this moment living simply, and it’s simply the best.

Now, usually I have an internal alarm that wakes me up in 18-22 minutes, honed by years of taking short naps at work, usually after a particularly gluttonous lunch at Matt’s El Rancho, I would lean back with my arms behind my head or perhaps on the armrest of my sturdy 1950’s metal and leather office chair, a chair that is so heavy that when you leaned back in it, all the way back, feet propped up on the desk, looking cool like Obama and The Resolute; there is no way you could tip over in it backwards, it was THAT heavy and well built!

It was a perfect napping set up.

Perfect.

And when in I was engaged in this most savored and sacred of moments I could nod out and drift into LaLa land in a matter of minutes, if not less, and would always wake up in that afore mentioned 18-22 minutes time span, literally like clockwork.

But today I was rousted by unmistakable forces outside.

Sounds sinister, right? I assure you it was the furthest thing from it.

I was awakened by the sound of teenagers engaged in a ritual, teenage boys to be exact; joking and talking trash, shouting personal epithets at one another, calling each other out as they raced towards the river and to The Rope Swing at 16. Nine guys, all clamoring on top of a large rock that sat in the middle of river, just South of the 16 Bridge, a rock that had been sheared off high above from the limestone cliff by forces of nature over the course of millions of years, landing, in its era, in this yet unnamed river by man, a perfectly smooth face jutting out from the waters, facing West. It was on this rock that the guys made their “base” as they took turns climbing up the riverbanks that led to a tree, a tree branch I would say, the tree itself having been shorn and battered by lightning or age or both, one heavy tree branch that jutted out over the river just so, with a rope affixed that looked recently replaced, and from this rope as you can imagine these young men swung out into the thin air and performed for each other, and to themselves.

Looking out the window, I thought to myself “man, to be that age again.”

I then grabbed my glass of tea, my camera-phone and note book, whistled once to my dog Jack to join me, and stepped into a scene from well, just insert any nostalgic American summer movie.

Carefree.

That is the easiest and most accurate description of the event and the young men I witnessed.

Carefree.

As I watched this un-orchestrated beauty of American life play out before me, I couldn’t help but think that these boys are just rolling through the best times of their lives, without knowledge of that for what it was. I was there once! That was me 35 years ago with my buddies at Mushroom Rock in the Barton Creek Greenbelt back in Austin, Texas!

Pushing each other off the rock. Playing king of the hill.

Doing back flips, belly flops and jack-knifes.

Always hopeful that some girls would show up to sunbathe so we could show off for them (no such luck today for these boys on this day) and that maybe if we played our cards right we might get the girls to come to the bonfire that we had planned for later that night.

These boys, do seem to have it figured out at this moment though.

I will give them that.

They are not enrolled in endless camps, or lurking around the house in a dark room on the couch playing Fortnite all day on their X-Boxes.

No, these boys are living, out loud and outside.

All of them sun-kissed, their bodies lean and muscled from athletics and likely from farm work (Hey, it’s Iowa, I’m going to go ahead and make that profile assumption) and undoubtedly from hours in the gym. These guys were doing double back flips off the rope like they had been training for an individual platform diving spot at the summer Olympics.

A few of them busted it, but hey, if you never go, you never know, right?

It was just pure bliss to be able be a spectator. Jack even got into the action. He has always been very hyper-aware when kids are swimming.

Vigilant you might say.

Running circles around the pool, diving in and swimming out to the kids as they splashed around, circling like a little furry lifeguard. Jack was beside himself today as he watched from the far riverbank, ultimately succumbing to his instincts and desires and swimming the breadth of the river to reach The Rock and his adopted charges, where he was well received by all.

The boys all had a general sense of respect and loyalty for one another, honed by years of playing ball together and growing up in each other’s kitchens, relying on each other during those hormone enflamed romantic heartaches, or how they make that double play when it matters most, or make that block that frees their teammate up to score the game winning touchdown.

Looking out on this scene I had a profound feeling of gratitude, and joy.

Grateful that I had undertaken this journey, which has allowed me to catch glimpses of a joyful life that I had thought no longer existed.

Summer.

As a kid.

Carefree.

Pickup basketball at the park.

Butts Up on the outside wall of the school.

Water balloon fights (some cars may have been caught in the cross-fire.)

Pool parties and living room dances.

Burgers by dad on Sunday.

Lemonade and Tea by mom, every day.

Movies and popcorn.

Swimming at the river.

Biking down to the 7-11 to play video games with money earned from mowing lawns.

Chasing after girls at the mall and making out with them in Dillard’s.

Sleepovers that lasted for days.

Camping trips that lasted for weeks.

Summer.

As a kid.

Care-free.

Looking around the suburbs today and viewing life through the lens of my peers on Facebook, it appears that the “carefree” summer is a lost art.

This group of boys in Iowa seem to have certainly perfected it, must be something in the water at the MFL Marmac school district, but what about all the kids whose parents have enrolled them in traveling competitive sports?

Endless competitions of all shapes and forms; baseball, soccer, cheerleading, lacrosse, golf, softball, horseback riding, and so many other programs that cost thousands and sometimes 10’s of thousands of dollars to enroll and maintain just a single kid, and all so that they could what, have an advantage on little Billy down the road? Billy is 12 years old!

The only advantage little Billy may have, is that he was born in September instead of April and has 8 months of growth on your little Timmy.

Also, I think of the parents that let their kids play video games ALL DAY, with a bag of chips and a coke for lunch, and I think ‘what in the hell is going on?’

What are all of these parents doing to their kids? To Our future?

Summer.

As a kid.

Care-free.

Let’s bring it back, shall we?

-S.C. Sanders

Special thanks to the Real Boys of Summer-

Front: Cayden Ball, Cullen McShane, J.T. Stocker, Karter decker, Wyatt Powell.

Back: Tyler Kurth, Kutter Anderson (I hope he’s a pitcher!)

and Chase Ziegler.

Post Script: I went to the local grocery store today to buy some camp provisions, and I was very pleasantly surprised to see Wyatt Powell there working, helping customers out to their cars by carrying bags of groceries for them, myself included. Thanks again, Wyatt.

Lastly: If swinging from a rope into the river one day and bagging groceries the next, isn’t All-American, than I don’t know what is.

God Bless America, and The Boys of Summer.

-SCS