Summer by Elisabeth Levy

        As  far back as I can remember I always spent the five weeks of summer vacation at the “Lerchenberg” (mountain with the Larks) in Erlenbach, on the shores of Lake Zurich. It is the majestic, proud farmhouse with the red barn, visible even from across the lake, the house where my father grew up. His brother Hans, my uncle, continued farming and subsequently his son Hans Jr., my cousin, followed in his footsteps. An unmarried sister, my godmother, known as Tante  (aunt) Marie by everybody, lived there as well.  At the age of fifty she seemed to have an old body with young brains. Between WWI  and WWII they barely made enough money to sustain the farm.

The living arrangement in the farmhouse was interesting.  Another sister,  Sophie, who was a bookkeeper and breadwinner, died at an early age. Tante Marie was supposed to take care of her parents and didn’t learn a profession, never worked outside the house. I might add she never helped with the farming either.  She was the perfect social worker without a degree. In this large house Tante Marie had a living room and a kitchen with access to the big veranda overlooking the lake. Upstairs she had two bedrooms, also overlooking the lake. On the other side of the hallway, facing the mountain side, lived Uncle Hans and Aunt Elise with their two children, Hans Jr. and Lieseli. They were a little older than my own three sisters. Their kitchen was big, and in their living room was a table with a slate inlay. Playing cards and using chalk for marking the scores was lots of fun. The adults’ bedrooms were upstairs too and the cousins’ were right under the roof.  They had two farmhands who helped taking care of the farm and the animals. The barn with its 20 cows was detached.

My earliest recollection dates back to when I was about four. I decided I wanted to go to Erlenbach to visit Tante Marie. From Kloten, where I lived, we had to take the train to the main station in Zurich, distance 7 miles, then take the tram or walk to the lake train station Stadelhofen, and another seven mile train ride got us to Erlenbach. (To take the train from the main station through the tunnel to the lake station, was too expensive). Our house was located at the Dorfstrasse.  I walked the ½ block to Petergasse and headed straight up to the train station. It didn’t take too long until Grite, our maid, had realized what I was up to, spotted me, sprinted, and took me to where I belonged, home.

  Tante Marie let me sleep in this big, comfy bed. She stuffed pillows under the mattress to prevent me from falling out of bed. Often she went visiting friends or sick people and I trotted along. To the village it took 15 minutes downhill, but walking back up the hill was another matter. The road was relatively steep and sometimes the summer heat was unmerciful.

Unfortunately my cousin Lieseli was diagnosed with diabetes at a very young age.  I watched her giving herself an injection of Insulin twice a day and she died at age 27. Erlenbach had two public places for swimming. One had a beautiful sandy beach, but was more expensive, (25 cents). The other, (10 cents), had a pier with steps leading right into the water, which was so clear I could see the fish. I didn’t like the idea of swimming with the fish, but of course that’s where Lieseli and I ended up.

Two girls my age lived close by. From the veranda I could look down into a large expansive estate. Right below lived the caretaker of this estate with his family. Madeleine was their only child and they had a dog.  I never forgot the tragedy. The villa owners had a tiny dog that somehow got killed by the caretaker’s dog. From the villa came a screaming and insanely angry maid and hit the caretaker’s poor dog almost to pieces. Thankfully he survived. Madeleine was a fun playmate, sort of a tomboy. The villa owners had a one-year-older son and she liked to play with him. I never met him as during vacation time he was off to someplace with his family. The other girl was also a single child and very, very protected. I suspect the parents were an older couple. She was a timid little soul. If there was a little wind, she had to wear a bonnet. In retrospect, she might have had some illness I was not aware of.      

Tante Marie cooked for me; one day she made cauliflower, which I didn’t like. Her comment: “I bet when you are grown up you will like it.” Right she was. She didn’t make me eat it, lucky me. However one time I was not so lucky. Very seldom did we eat with the farmer’s family and then came the unforgettable day. Tante Marie had to go to a funeral across the lake and left me to have lunch with the farmers. Aunt Elise made the Friday specialty, tarts or some type of pizza. It was (and still is) one of my favorite meals. However, I never had tarts topped with onions. I was used to cheese tops and all types of fruit. Onion? No way. They laughed and made fun of me. I had to eat the whole big piece. Everybody had long left, I was still sitting there until I finally finished it and earned a piece of apple tart.  Is it a surprise that the opposite of this “teaching” experiment happened? To this day, I still don’t like onions.

One summer, when I was ten years old, Tante Marie wanted me to meet a new neighbor.  A family had moved in two blocks away and their ten-year old girl didn’t speak our German dialect fluently, as her mother was French and they had moved from France to Erlenbach. I was fascinated by Simone’s accent and pretty soon we were the best of friends. The fun lasted only a few summers as she became paralyzed and spent one whole year in the hospital. We are still in touch; in 2008 I translated her life story from German to English.  I gave the little booklet the name “Destiny.”

By that time WWII had broken out and we school kids had to do our mandatory three weeks helping farmers. I signed up to help on my uncle’s farm. It was the first time in all these years that I worked for them. I helped with the hay and promptly developed a rash. My cousin Hans had married and had twin boys. Happily I said good-bye to hard farm work and happily helped care for the babies. 

In retrospect I realize the hardship my uncle’s family went through. Tante Marie didn’t chip in to help carry the burden. She was a Sunday school teacher and visited sick people and friends. Everybody loved her, except her sister-in-law, Elise, and later Hans’ wife Margrit.  Hans and Margrit had five boys, and one of the oldest twins, Heini, has the farm now. They don’t have cattle anymore, but are famous for their delicious apples and honey. They also sold part of their land and don’t have any more money worries.

Two years ago Paul, my oldest sister Lily’s son, picked my sister Erika and me up to have lunch together. After lunch Paul asked me if I had a wish to drive someplace and I immediately said the “Lerchenberg”. I had not been inside the house for close to forty years. The barn still had the same red color, but the veranda had a brightly colored green fence.  Hesitatingly I rang the doorbell and was greeted by Heini’s wife Ursula whom I had not met before. After the first initial shock and surprise she invited us into the house, showed us around, told me about her grown children, the changes in the living arrangement, the remodeling, and to top it all off, gave me a jar of their famous honey.

A Summer Love Affair by Nancy Humphriss

            Summers when I was young, beginning in my memory at four years old, were magical.  My favorite aunt and uncle owned a cottage on Pine Island Lake in western Massachusetts, about ten miles from our home.  Shirley, my older sister and I, sat in the back seat of our old Chevrolet, Dad and Mom in the front.  “I see it!” one of us would shout, vying for  being the first-one-to-see-water contest.  Since we already had our bathing suits on, we raced to the lake as soon as we jumped from the car.  Shirley, five years older than I, was already a strong swimmer, so I waded  around in the shallows,  as she took off for the small island not far from shore.  How I longed to join her, but that was not yet possible. The adults spread a blanket and sat on the grass, watching over us, but were mostly involved with family conversation, eating snacks, and enjoying some liquid refreshment.  With no one to play with,  I soon decided to sit on the dock which stretched twenty feet or so out into the lake.  As I sat, legs dangling over the edge,  I began to feel a slow but steady rise in the water, little by little covering first my feet, then my legs, and finally up to my waist.  I was not afraid, only surprised and curious as to what was happening.  The underpinnings had collapsed, and the dock was sinking! It never occurred to me to call out to my parents, but instead instinct took over, and I began to do a slow but steady dog paddle.  Happily, I realized I actually could swim and headed out to follow Shirley.  Then I heard the loud panic in my mother’s voice, while my Dad jumped fully dressed into the lake to save me.  After he carried me to shore, I was most indignant that no one saw how well I was swimming.  After this episode, my sister took over and instructed me in the finer points of the sport,  and at this early age I learned the crawl, side and breast stroke.  From then on, Pine Island Lake had even more allure for me.  This was my very first love affair -- with water and swimming.

            At fifteen I began to “date” Dale, a fellow student in our high school.  My parents were friends, especially our Dads, who loved to hunt and fish together.  So this relationship was allowed and maybe even encouraged.  We attended the same church, and went to the Youth Fellowship where we continued our innocent teen-age love affairs with each other and water.  Dale’s family had a cottage on a lake, too,  along with other relatives who also owned summer homes there.  I was often invited to join the family, so our days were filled with all the pleasures the clean, clear, cool lake could offer.  There was nothing fancy about life there, canoes, and row boats being the only water transportation.  Diving from the floats, bobbing about in inner tubes, swimming across the lake, and of  course, working on our tans were the main forms of entertainment.  When low bush blueberries, tiny but delicious, were in season, we hopped into a boat and paddled to the far end of the lake where there was no development.  We drifted along the shoreline which had thick blueberry bushes, picking and picking until our baskets were full.  These berries were scheduled for two important uses -- Dale’s mother’s fabulous blueberry pies, and Dale’s source of spending money -- selling them in town to residents too lazy or busy to pick their own.  The price?  In the 1950’s, fifteen cents a heaping quart!  A few sales gave Dale enough money to take me to a movie and buy a bag of popcorn.

            The major event of the season was the Fourth of July. The family descended in full force, each bringing the then legal fireworks to be set off along with all the others

around the lake.  The morning hours were filled with water games and races for all

the kids with prizes of tee shirts or “gold” medals , for the winners to the also-rans.  Most cottages hosted barbecues or hamburger cook-outs, so the lake shore was filled with the sounds and smells of happy people.  Late afternoon meant the parade of boats, and we sat on our dock to await this spectacle.  No motor boats were allowed, so the scene was  row boat after canoe, each draped with balloons, banners, flags, lights, or other home-made decorations.  Of course the Wyola committee had judges, so various categories were given first prize --but again, no one “lost.”  When darkness descended, the fireworks show began.  It was totally disorganized, with each group shooting off its best display, rather willy-nilly.  The exploding star bursts,  zipping rockets, loud pop-pops thrilled everyone, and while the occasional small fire occurred, these were easily extinguished with the water buckets everyone kept handy.  Now, some 65 years later, the family still gathers at the lake for this event.  It has changed, of course, and a steak roast with wine tasting added for more up-dated sophistication. But in general, generations enjoy the same down-home revelry, sharing with friends,  pride in country, and thrills of the day.  Our now-adult children still return when they can to these roots, remembering as we do the warmth and joy of togetherness.

            This summer we, the now greatly expanded Humphriss families, will gather for an event acknowledging the natural cycle of life.  We will celebrate the life of one of our beloved own who departed last February.  Her wish was to have a memorial service at the lake, and her ashes spread in the very old cemetery high on the hill overlooking Wyola.  This is a Civil War burial place, and now difficult to access since the dirt road is bumpy and not well maintained. It is very secluded and private, so the service will be held there. While we will recognize our grief and loss, we also will allow our joy to be with us, too, since we still have our great memories, great funny stories, and wonderful times to remember.  After the ceremony and informal reception ends, I will don my bathing suit and swim, letting the cool, velvety water wash over me,  covering me with its soothing powers.

September by Jack Russ

 “So, Chuck,what’s your favorite season as long as we’re on the topic this afternoon?” Dave said from the porch rocker, anticipation in his eyes. His hand swiped his graying mustache.

Chuck glanced at his dog Rascal sleeping at his feet on the family sun porch. He settled back in the porch easy chair for another of his frequent chats with neighbor Dave. But, before replying, Chuck paused as though recalling past events.

 “September,” Chuck said, a sly grin forming. 

“No, you misunderstood.” Dave leaned forward, curiosity in his eyes. “Season. I asked what season is your favorite?  And why?”

“And I said, September,” Chuck replied. “To me it’s a season all to its own. That hasn’t always been the case.” He slowly reached down and patted Rascal. “For me it’s just special.” 

“Okay, I’ll accept that you view September as a season.” Dave relaxed, anticipating one of Chuck’s usual colorful responses. When Chuck didn’t respond as expected, Dave continued. “So, what’s special about September? For me it means football, fall colors, the grand kids, Jimmy, for instance, beginning school.  Judy’s excited about going into Junior High. Fran and Phil expect a baby in a couple of weeks. I know similar things are going on with your family. There’s a lot to enjoy, things to be thankful for in the fall.  But I asked you about a season. You said September.  For you it was somehow special. I’m waiting.”

Chuck turned again to the scene beyond the porch railing as though looking for something in the distance.

“Yes, September is special for me in a way you couldn’t know,” he said. “I haven’t mentioned it before but, since you insist…well, let me tell you a short story.

“In the fall of my senior year at the university, I had a really full schedule, football season you know, and extra classes to complete my major. On top of that, I’d been elected fraternity president for the year. One of the new pledges, Willy Horne, had become my roommate.  You remember “Wee Willy,” short, lots of energy and often more mouth than called for.

“The university sponsored mixers held in the women’s gym.  The dances were held in the evening of the second, third and fourth Friday at the start of each school year.

“At that time Willy hadn’t linked up with any girl, and in fairness, had been trying to get into studying.  I hadn’t dated with any regularity either, and was focused on getting my stuff together for the academic challenge ahead.

“When Willy discovered that I hadn’t planned to attend the evening’s mixer he was all over me to go and maybe introduce him to some of the girls.  Finally, to shut him up, I agreed to accompany him, but told him I’d stay no more than a half hour then come back to work on a paper due Monday morning.

 “Willy and I went in the gym’s north entrance that evening. A good crowd had gathered by 8:30. Willy looked around, decided he didn’t need any help from me, and took off on his own. I remember him minutes later dancing with a tall, beautiful blonde. I wandered around, didn’t dance, talked briefly with some of the guys. After about twenty minutes I’d had enough and decided to head back to my homework.

  “I turned toward the entrance and stopped. A pair of beautiful redheads stepped through the door.  Just inside they hesitated, looked around as though looking for friends, and appeared to be discussing something. I walked toward them hoping at least one of them would dance with me.  One of the guys approached the pair before I reached them, and asked one to dance with him.  I walked faster. When I was about three feet behind the other girl, she started to turn toward the door but stopped as I approach.

    "'Hi!  I’m Chuck. May I have this dance?' I was stunned at my audacity. I’d never been that direct before.

    “She looked up at me and hesitated. Her sparkling blue eyes held me and emphasized a beautiful smile. Well, we danced together and chatted until the dance ended.”

    “Okay, ” Dave paused and grinned. “You said it was special.  What did I miss?”

   “When I returned to my room late that evening, Willy was sitting up apparently attempting to study.”

  "'For a guy who wasn’t going to go, tonight, Willy said, you sure changed fast.  How did it go?'”

    “I stared at him, my mind in a whirl for a minute or more, unable to say what I felt. 'September, this Friday, will always be special for me.' I swallowed then grinned and said, 'I’ve just met my future wife.'”

            Dave grinned. “Yes, I agree. Special.”

Autumn by Sally Tilbury

The Fall season began in late September. This was the season that required raking. We truly enjoyed raking leaves into piles in the gutter and to watch Dad strike the match and begin the fire ritual. The leaves would burn endlessly while we added more to the steaming pile. They smoked up the neighborhood. The neighbors did the same thing into October and beyond. You sensed a camaraderie among the dads.  The smell of burning leaves belonged to this process alone.

In the days ahead the piles of leaves were reduced to ashes. November would come followed by chilly nights, heavier blankets and Grandma’s quilts. We hoped to make ice by Thanksgiving. That signaled the beginning of Winter.

The positive thing about the changing of the seasons is that children look forward to the next and wonder what that particular season might challenge them and what new adventures it might offer.

Children know.

A Midwestern Thunderstorm by Sally Tilbury

 No one delights in a Midwestern thunder storm more than children. Hot, humid nights of July and August sent my two older brothers and me out of our stifling bedrooms and into the upstairs hallway in front of the screened porch.That night, we dragged our pillows behind us and argued as to whose turn it was to lie in front of the door where we might catch a breeze. We flopped on the floor thinking a storm might arrive at any moment. Had we chosen to open the screen door, the mosquitoes would have eaten us. They thrive on young flesh in the humid air of summer nights. They should be the state bird of Minnesota.    

 A scary wind swept over us followed by a huge crash. Startled, we snatched up our pillows and ran for our bedrooms. This little sister threw the covers over her head and waited ‘til the lightning would strike again, lighting the sky, making the room like daylight. The brothers knew how to count between strikes. They would begin to count one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand in a steady cadence and when they arrived at five one-thousand and the lightning struck again, they knew the center of the storm was five miles from us – or so they said. Older brothers are often full of blarney. I could not do the math. When the older boys grew up and left home, I found that some of the facts and figures they told me years ago were, in fact, true. At five or six years of age, I tried to ignore them.

 A few more scary bangs and a few more flashes of lightning and then the soothing rain began. I peeked to see the curtains in my bedroom float gracefully, billowing  almost to the ceiling. The elm tree in front was swaying with the wind, its topmost branches bent and swooped round and round like a ballerina’s skirt. First had come the warning wind, then the thunder, then lightning, the rain and then Dad. He came into each room to say everything was all right and to close each window with a decisive thump. As long as Dad was in the room I knew everything was okay. He was an "in charge" Dad.