I remember the specifically free feeling of summertime when I was a kid. There were to be a limited number of summers like this before adolescence kicked in, but like most kids, I wasn't aware of this, or if I was, I certainly wasn't meditating on it. Instead, thanks to ignorant bliss, I woke up each day excited to take on whatever adventure might come. Many hours were spent rollerblading in the front driveway, working up the courage to edge towards the street — our driveway sloped downwards — buckets of chalk spilled across the concrete, casualties from my sister and I debating whether to use pink, blue, or purple. Mom or Dad sat in a lawn chair with a boom box to their side; sometimes, if we were lucky (truly, I mean this), we'd wash the car.
Before I cared that chlorine dries my skin out and before the sensation of dry hands drove me insane, there was the, for some reason, the unmatched experience of wearing my swimsuit all day long. Constantly alternating between dry and drenched (whether in sweat or pool water) all day, my hair was like stiffened strands of straw from the mixture of sun exposure and chlorine; those days could have stretched forever.
Texas heat lent to horribly hot days, especially in August. At the end of a day outside, I'd take a cold shower, Mom brushed my hair, and Dad took my sister and me to McDonald's, followed by Blockbuster. Movie rental and dinner in hand, we'd make our way home. After eating, my sister and I would pile onto Mom and Dad's bed and watch our chosen rental movie.