He’s so frail now. It’s almost hard to find the summertime in him these days.
My dad is in his eighties, and it feels more correct to call him father to match the distinguished white of his beard and what is left of his hair.
Memories of the younger version of him seem somehow stretched, thin and lean like his aging muscles over his shrinking frame. He sits hunched on the edge of his seat, wavering slowly side to side. It’s as though his spine can no longer hold him still. “You must have lost weight,” he barks at me snappishly. I’ve jut hiked up my jeans for the third time since entering the kitchenette where he sits with an untouched cup of tea. His peevish attitude is the only thing about him that has grown with time. Instead of starting a fight with the response that barrages my lips, stop talking about my weight… what the hell is wrong with you! I just roll my eyes and smile mischievously, “nope, just forgot to pack a belt this time.”
He’s right. I have lost weight, intentionally. Knowing I would be home with him and my mom for a week I’d spent the previous month shedding a couple of pounds to try and keep body commentary at bay. Of course, I should have known it was in vain. That kind of open-minded change must be intentional. No one accidentally becomes more compassionate.
“Huh,” he grumbles and stares off into the air again. His attention is short and more often than not in between moments of conversation his mind wanders internally, and he stares slack jawed at nothing.
I look around the kitchen to pass the incoherent time. The blinds are shut across the entire house, windows closed tightly and with no lights on, the dim atmosphere weighs on me and I can hardly breathe. My childhood home feels unfamiliar and foreign, even with my dad sitting 4 feet from me and my mom fluttering about the kitchen slowly clearing plates from the counter. I stare at him a moment longer until suddenly I can’t stand it anymore.
Jumping to my feet, I race down a few steps to the family room, throwing up the blinds and heaving open the lower patio door. As air and light begin to pour in, I smell the sweet, dank smell of freshly cut grass. Dashing up the steps I peel back the upper patio door and pry up the kitchen windows and blinds. The sounds of squirrels scampering around the old aspen, which has grown bigger than our old house and homes fat little birds chattering amongst themselves in its branches, erupts while I catch the distinct waft of mineral packed soil. Somewhere in the neighborhood kids are screaming with glee and a dog is barking wildly. A lawn is being mowed with a gas-powered roaring machine, and an old man plays hacky sack in the park behind the house. A neighbor is turning her flowerpots to help the flowers catch the best of the bright morning light.
The house is filled instantly with sounds, scents and sun.
And right before my eyes a mirage forms like rewinding a vhs tape.
My dad is unfurling from his blank faced, wizened perch into a confident stance, leaning on the back of his chair with strong, weathered hands. His black skin is stretched taut over the kind of biceps that come from a lifetime of blue-collar labor; his calves are shaped and tensed covered with scars from an epic incident involving me and learning to ride a bike. He’s wearing shorts and a white tank top covering a slightly puffy gut. The early morning sun is still a spotlight through the window, and I can see a bead of sweat on his brow and he’s peering intently out of the patio doors.
The house around me is young again even with the old worn linoleum floors and beige walls. There are vases of fresh summer flowers on the kitchen counter and barbies and books scattered on the floor in the family room. My swim bag is sitting by the back door, and I can smell the chlorine wafting up to where I stand. Light is everywhere. My childhood home is bathed in sunlight from windows on every wall and the wall of glass doors in the main living area. It’s glowing. As if on que the murky mirage solidifies sight, sound and light, and in my minds eye I hit PLAY.
It’s Colorado summer in the 90s. Bright blue cloudless sky, soaring heat index and the beginning of what would become a prolonged and fateful drought. Sitting in the middle of the suburbs with no air conditioning, school out and 4 irritable and energetic kids milling about the house, my dad is counting the minutes until summer museum classes start. Then he can have space and time back to continue tinkering on his 1985 red Ford pickup and retrofitting his 87 Ford Econoline van with parts and pieces to make it better for long distance travel. My dad always loves working with his hands and summer is his time to put manual labor into and tinker on his 3 cars. I love helping him in the garage, handling tools, holding the work light or fitting my small hand in the hard-to-reach engine places. Something about getting dirty and greasy under the hood of a car feels meaningful to me. Hindsight will help me see it was the time with him while learning to work with my hands that gave me the joy.
“You wanna go to Bandimere?” His eyes flicker in my direction. I’m ten years old, standing in the kitchen with a plastic cup of Tang, positively buzzing with morning energy. Everyone else is still upstairs slowly shifting around and preparing to start the day. I literally jump in the air and squeal, “YEAH!” As my bounding continues, he looks at his watch, “go tell your sister, I need to check the spark plugs on the car.” Swiping his coffee off the octagon shaped table he saunters to the back door and disappears into the garage. It’s 8 o’clock but I can already feel the heat of the day warming the floors and the dry heat heaving into the house. On days like this, when you knew it was going to be helter swelter with no relief, you take a breath and head out. If you can’t beat it, join in.
My middle sister is 2 years older than me, and in our pre pre-teen years we retain the idle and simple essence of summer joy. Bare feet on hot sidewalks, skinned knees, hands and chins, splinters in our toes and heels from the unfinished wood of the back deck; sleeping on the floor to stay cool, and blowing bubbles, hopscotch chalk on the driveway, roller skates and jump rope. But what I love more than anything, is going to Bandimere Speedway.
Mom packs an old school picnic basket with sandwiches, chips, pickles, and frozen grapes. She makes a pitcher full of watermelon lemonade and stacks some Capri sun next to her Arbor Mist in the Igloo cooler. She chides me on my outfit choice, jumper shorts are not the best option for a day of port-o-potties and sitting on hot concrete slabs, but I hold firm to my black and yellow striped romper.
We take the Pontiac and cruise to 470 to enter from the South. My heart always leaps to my throat on the drive. Gliding from the flat plains, you reach a small gully and pockets of thin trees and small man-made lakes until just before your eyes Mt Evans towers over you and slightly to her left large red cliffs emerge in majesty. Just below the crimson ridgeline sits a quarter mile dragstrip fondly called Thunder Mountain. And she is as summer to me as heat, sandals, and sunburns.
We always arrive early enough to pick out the good seats. Too close and you’ll be consumed with sound and smoke, but too far and you can’t see the car liveries clearly. My mom and sister begin setting up blankets and picnic items but as soon as we find the spot, I dash down the stairs to ogle the cars up close. I feel the heat from the track resonating and the pungent smell of hot tar stinging in my nostrils. And I love it. My mom orders my dad to follow me, knowing that I will stand with my fingers entwined in the metal gate until my lungs burn and my eyes are raw. He stands next to me diligently answering as I ask about the cars makes, models and speeds. When he can’t hear me over the roaring engines, and when the announcer cautions that racing will commence, he peels me away back to our spot.
There are vendors, games, fair rides, and food further away from the track side. My sister and I investigate the options to escape the parents from time to time and kill some of the youthful energy built up, like lactic acid in our muscles. But nothing outside of the track holds my attention long. Inevitably I am drawn back to the strip where I can feel the rumbling of the powerful machines below in the cavity of my chest, replacing my heartbeat with a mechanical engine throb.
I poke my dad as a souped out silver Mustang with a hood scoop drives up to the line next to a 1989 Firebird. “I’ll bet you $5 that the Firebird will win!” I spit and My dad chuckles, “When did you start gambling?” The mustang engine roars and dusts its wheels, kicking up a cloud of thick smoke into the stands. “I doubt they’ll even get the thing started.” He pauses, “I think the Mustang is going to win this one sweetheart.” The firebird engine sputters in and out a few times over the next few minutes. He looks down at me, “You really like the underdogs, don’t you?” I nod, transfixed on the unassuming black car I’d bet my weekly allowance on.
The engine roars to life and the racing lights flash on, I hold my breath and clench my fists as it hits green. Both cars scream off the line in unison. Most of the crowd is paying half attention, waiting for the super sports cars to come out and play later in the day. There is no cheering or vocal excitement, just idle chit chat and some loud laughter in the background. My eyes never leave the Firebird as it picks up speed rapidly and squeals down the raceway leaving a trail of dark lines on the track surface. I can see faint trails of smoke emerging from the hood and worry if I blink it will explode.
My dad hands me a 5-dollar bill with a proud grin on his face, “when you believe in something, stick to it baby girl.” A small group near the track whoops and hollers as the firebird disappears on the far end of the track, it barely edged out the Mustang with a late surge. As I tuck my winnings into my green and purple dinosaur fanny pack a red Ferrari rolls across the starting line, jumping its engine to life. The announcer mumbles something over the loudspeaker about false starts but I stare out down the track wondering what it would be like to go that fast in such a giant machine of moving parts.
We spend all day at the track, waiting for the sweet relief of sun cover when it dips below the peaks to our backs. Once in the shade, sweatshirts and cardigans emerge from a random bag my mom has stashed at our station. Dry heat requires the sun to retain its bite. Once the sun slips behind clouds, buildings, trees or mountains, the temperature always drops dramatically. I tuck under my dad’s arm and pepper him with questions about the innerworkings of car mechanisms. He diligently answers and admits where his knowledge ends, “you’ll have to look that up in our book on car engines when we get home, I’m not sure how you would do that…” He responds to my inquiry about hooking up nitrous to a 70s trans am sitting on the side of the track.
The races come to an end just before headlights became mandatory, and I can no longer hide my yawns between splits. But the top fuel pulls up to the line and my little heart stops. The 7000-horsepower dragster literally shoots fire from its back end and lights up the dark blue of the evening like the fourth of July. It is beautiful. Like a moth, I find myself pulled toward it, dashing down the stone steps to get to the gate before others could block my close-up view. My dad follows enough to keep me in sight. Standing with my face pressed to the gate I worry the heat emanating from the engine will burn my face, I can feel a tinge of pain in my cheeks. A girl next to me gasps and jumps away screaming, “sparks!” With a collection of yells, most of the younger kids run away from the gate back to the safety of their parents.
Dad steps up behind me and points to the engine sitting in the back. I can’t hear if he is speaking to me or not. I can barely hear, see, think or feel anything except for that dragster. It is heat, light, and sound incarnate. When the light turns green with a supercharged flash of heat and a rocket ship of sound, its gone. I don’t even see the wheels turn. It just flies down the track and disappears into the gathering dark.
With a mix tape my sister and I made off Radio Disney playing in the tape deck and the mountains receding like a shadowy cloak draped behind a sea of stars we make our way back to fields of city lights. “Dad, what’s your favorite car?” I pipe up to break the sleepy silence and lean on the back of the brown bench seats of the Pontiac. “I think I like Thunderbird!” He chuckles, “we’ll see about that when its time for your first car. I don’t know that I have a favorite, I really like my truck.” There is a grease stain on my romper from earlier in the week when I’d helped him change the oil, and I rub it with my thumb subconsciously. “When you are able to fix and work on your own car that makes you respect it more.” I half-listen and roll down my window to stick my hand into the night air. It’s cool and crisp with a light breeze rustling the tree lined streets of our neighborhood. I can smell charcoal grills and hear the hushed voices and laughter hidden behind fences and gates. Next door a small fire flickers in their pit at we pulled into our driveway.
As my mom unlocks the front door, I kick off my jelly sandals and race to the patio doors, poised to lull my sister down the deck steps to lay in the cool grass and look for shooting stars. But the mirage begins to fuzz the edges of the living memory, with the night wafting away and morning light returning. Our blue and white linoleum kitchen floor turn back into beige tile and the green granite countertops reappear. The walls papered with poorly executed works of kid art fade and family photos and works of professional art emerge. Our home grows into a house, with dulled edges and comfort borne from years of loving wear.
The mirage blur begins to recede, and with a blink I’m standing across the table from my dad seated, stooped, and blinking slowly and blankly.
“So, dad, what are you planning to do today?” I ask with a cheerfulness that I no longer feel. “Well…” he mumbles around a bit and taps on the table with a bony finger, “I need to take that car in for service.” He ponders his prized Mercedes, purchased brand new 5 years ago. “But I just don’t feel like it.” He looked at me and smiled tiredly, “You need anything?” I shook my head. I don’t have the heart to remind him that the car is falling apart, with multiple part replacements needed and no one to care for it like he would have so many summers ago.
I watch him shuffle away from the table down three steps into his office on the landing, shutting the door behind him while absently muttering to himself.
And I am left wondering where summertime has gone.
cirque de la nuit 