A Little Rainy Day Memoir of a Childhood August

When I was a student and throughout my years as an education professional, we used to refer to August as “one long Sunday night.” This morning as I was drinking my coffee, I watched rain we don’t need pour down on the backyard gardens, courtesy of the remnants of Hurricane Debby. The same melancholy “one long Sunday” feeling I’d get as a child on rainy August days returned. On a dark-skied, moody day like today, the rumbles of thunder seem to foreshadow just how little of summer is left. 

When I was a school-aged, a day like this was a reminder of what lay ahead: back to school, an earlier bedtime, and the same old family conflicts that a three month summer break helped to diffuse. Especially as a child, I felt that summer was too short. It may have only been the first week of August, but the mourning period was unleashed by that first dark, cooler, rainy day of the month. I could wait all day, looking out a window for the return of a brightened blue sky full of white cotton candy clouds. I’d dream about once again hearing the lapping of the lake against the shore at my cousins’ camp. That acrid smell of burning charcoal turning into a plate with a bunless hamburger and a hotdog shiny with mustard and a plop of ketchup on the side, with just enough room for a side of chips that came out of a waxed paper sleeve. And a half an hour after we ate, I’d be ready to storm into the shallow, rocky lake water, wearing the perennially damp bathing suit and a polka dotted dime store blow-up tube that lost its air as soon as I tugged it up to position it on my chubby waist. Oh, I wanted that sunny-July-day feeling to come back. 

But if the skies continued to hang onto their relentless rain and gray drear, I would have no choice but to shift my reverie to the things I loved about the first day of school. I’d imagine freshly sharpened new pencils and a blue plastic 6-inch ruler neatly organized in a red pencil case with one of those accordion openings. Maybe there’d be one of those square, tan erasers that looked so much like a hunk of peanut butter fudge that I would have to hold myself back from trying a bite. And then I would move on to the holy grail of rainy August daydreams: a first day of school outfit for Messenger Street School. I’d envision something I’d seen in the pages of a back-to-school catalog – maybe a plaid dress. Yes, it would be a plaid dress that I could wear with a bouffant-tulle slip, just right for twirling. And I’d have new shoes, but they’d be black patent leather Mary Janes, not the clunky, ugly Buster Browns I had to wear to correct my feet. I’d have those pristine white ankle socks, maybe the ones with the lace around the tops, not the baggy cotton ones I usually wore. A headband. I’d have a headband in an accent color from the plaid, but it would be a nice cloth one, not one of the plastic ones that snapped in half when pushed through my over-processed Toni. Oh, and I’d definitely need a little cardigan with pearl-like buttons. And the headband and the cardigan would be red, like my pencil case. Rapture.

Most likely, my rainy day daydreams would shift to the end of the month of August, and my birthday. In my mind, my birthday would be a gala, of course – the most fun of summer before school. Well, there weren’t any galas, really, but there was always homemade chocolate cake with my mother’s famous, marshmallowy Seven Minute Frosting, and lots of chocolate ice cream. And on one late August very dark and rainy day right before the start of school, there was a birthday party. And at that party, there was a little girl with lacy white socks peeking out of black patent leather shoes, in a flouncy party dress, with a pristine white cardigan trimmed with grosgrain ribbon along the button holes, hair curled and held back by a pearly headband. But that wasn’t me.

I was an overweight, messy youngster who was “hard on clothes.” That little princess was a girl named Cathy from down the street who had come to my first and only surprise party. Cathy set the standard for little girls. Seeing her at my front door under her father’s umbrella on that stormy afternoon produced a jolt of excitement and a sharp pain of contrast. Soon a few other children followed behind her. My neighbor friend, Cherry, was there with a present, along with the little boy from next door. And my brother was in attendance and in a suit. Raincoats, umbrellas, and red rubbers were left in our tiny front hallway. They were wet, but it was a party after all, and there would be cake.

The last thing I remember about that birthday party was my brother in his suit jacket leaving the front porch, umbrella in hand, to walk little Cathy down the street in the pouring rain. From our front window, I knelt on a chair and watched them all the way to her house. The other thing I remember about that birthday was at some point after it, just in time for the first day of school, I got the plaid dress of my dreams, a red cardigan with grosgrain ribbon along the button holes, and a tulle slip that my grandmother made me out of one of her old ones. I didn’t get the headband, but I got some new barrettes to hold back that unruly perm. 

I guess August and birthdays have something in common. They are both bittersweet and provoke some mixed feelings.  As an adult, I still feel that desire in August, especially on a rainy day like this one, to hang on to those “let's eat corn on the cob and wade in the lake” summer days. But like my grade school self, the rainy day and the cooler temperatures cause a giddy anticipation for the crisp, color-drenched days of fall and a new notebook or two. And as for my August birthday? Well, I am happy to let that little, pudgy me know that when she’s an old lady, she’ll pretty much be living out all her dreams in The Precious Days.  

Where does your mind wander on rainy August days? Let me know in the Comments.