How a never-ending June comes to a close

Here’s another installment of something I started earlier last year: kind of vague, loosely edited vignettes of stuff I’ve had the pleasure to do, read, or process. They’re a little more thoughtful, bending noticeably toward a romanticist interior. The writing is mainly for me, but anyone who enjoys the ever so slightly melodramatic aesthetic, wind whipping through the aspens in a monochrome movie, might enjoy these scenes as well. Have at it, and thank you for reading.

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Looking at the calendar, writing in all the extraordinary things yet to transpire, I knew the month would be “busy.” It seemed that all of my friend’s Junes were going to be “busy.” What I didn’t know would come with nearly all of my special things was the heat dome that would move over and settle down in the heart of the South, and this, I hate to admit, is what I’ll remember most about this month. Years will expire and turn over and renegotiate, and I will still recall the sweat and dampening clothes from simply walking outside at nine in the morning. Southern heat usually knows no subtlety, but this was, and is, absurd.

It’s Independence Day at present, and the heat has yet to subside, but now I have the benefit of resting in July, looking back on a fulfilling, bittersweet June that never seemed to end until it did. June thirtieth rolled over to July first without a brief thought of recognition. Presently, I get to indulge in one of my favorite activities: falling into my old man brain and reminiscing as if I contain the same quantity of memories as an eighty-year-old. It’s a skill you can’t put on a resume, and your friends will sometimes tease you about it. But what the heck…

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Evidently, June was the month that all my favorite music artists gathered and decided to tour. I didn’t make it to some because there were many, yet the ones I did attend were beyond reproach. Concerts I go to typically are. The only thing that could ruin a concert is the audience (of which I’ve witnessed many), and I will leave applauding the artist but hating the overall experience. Nevertheless, many musical performances populated my June. I went to a K-Pop concert for the first time, accompanying my good friend (the true fan who brought me with her). We stood outside, waiting to enter, for an hour that felt like three with the hot sun blazing down on our backs. Incredible performance, a good time dancing to the music and whirling around in the atmosphere, though I will say that even though it’s easy for me to appreciate the obvious hard work of the band and the dedicated enthusiasm of the audience, it’s a scene that’s better off existing without my forced presence.

Perhaps the reason I attend so many concerts is entirely due to the relative invisibility many of the artists I love still possess. They slip under the radar, and the tickets aren’t expensive. Nine times out of ten, I’ll get to express my appreciation to their face (at least, I’ll try to: my starstruck nervous system sometimes gets in the way of my words). Friends graciously came with me to a small venue in midtown to hear an Americana artist that I’ll always see whenever he’s in town; others to a larger venue in the business district to see a Swedish pop artist I love, one whom I’m uncertain when I’ll get to see her in the states again; and some to a barn East of the city to hear lively folk music played by a local band.

At the end of many of these concerts, we strode through the enveloping heat of the night, sweating after mere minutes even though it was half ten by that point, toward the train station, elated to have had such a wonderful time. It’s complicated how something you’ve been waiting for forever to arrive is over within an hour. Blink your eyes, it’s a month later, and it’s still hot.

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Part of the reason time moves swiftly in my life is the resultant of many chances to watch the happiness of my friends and family. Being around their smiles as they receive or experience something they’ve never had or hadn’t for a long time is remarkably warm-hearted and genial. And in this witnessed expression, time seems to speed up.  

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It’s pretty usual for me to travel somewhere distant if a particular interest has enough gravity to pull me there. Since Highlands, a small tourist town in North Carolina with regularly amiable temperatures, is a few hours away from home, and a very prestigious car show is held there every summer, I made the trip and brought my dad with me. The added pull of Highlands is that it’s nestled within a treescape; mountainous terrain abounds. Not only that, but the town looks like a Hallmark movie set. The streets are lined with trees, picturesque shops dot a vibrant main street, and there’s a perpetual coziness that bemuses and cosets many visitors. It isn’t mysterious why so many wish to move despite the high cost of real estate there.

I don’t know the last time my dad, who initially cultivated my love of the outdoors, had been to the hills aside from a brief day trip to Brasstown a little after the Pandemic subsided. It has to have been ages, though. We made the trip and walked amongst the cars of prosperous people and motorsport teams—beautiful Porsche race cars, pristine antique Duesenbergs, elegant Ferraris, classic American luxury boats. And once that had ended, and I had had my fun, we set off to a brilliant place called Whiteside Mountain, a place with sheer rock cliffs and perfect perches for watching the sun go down. The temperature was lovely high up in the elevations and didn’t begin scorching us until we made the journey home. 

My dad is like me: we don’t always wear our emotions or show anything too extreme externally. So when the mood becomes contemplative, he’ll utter a soft “Thank you,” which lets you know he’s had a brilliant time. And I’m glad I’m the one now who’s able to provide a brilliant time.

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I went with my good friends on a six-hour drive to Virginia in search of something very special…well, special to us. We left satisfied because my friend held the title to a late 90s Subaru. A project car. Two cylinders were misfiring, several panels needed repair or replacement, and nearly all the CV joints were busted. But the air conditioning worked splendidly, and the fixes required to make the car at the very least reliably drivable were easy. It’s been a few weeks since, and the car looks like a hodgepodge of other cars: the damaged panels have been replaced with those of other Legacies (some are white and some are green), the spark plugs and wires are all new, and it has the more desirable hood (with the scoop in it). It’s a source of joy for him and my other friend (to whom he’s married), and I get to watch this thing transform into something really cool. That, in turn, brings me joy.

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On the eve of making a significant life change concerning her employment, I attended a work event with my friend of nearly ten years, and though the evening was enveloped in stress over the future, we took hold of the night and let go. Being in the space of amicability, comradery, and genuine fun was lovely. And just like all good things with friends, the evening rapidly came and went. I’m still thinking about these events as if they occurred last night instead of nearly a month ago. And it might as well be since we continue to shadowbox these vehement temperatures.  

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Since the process started, there hadn’t been any wasted emotion, whether in January when we moved my grandparents into assisted living or in March when we formally started organizing their house for market. Everything was on the surface, and if one didn’t busy themselves with some task, they would likely fall into thoughts about how things were and where we are now. Because my grandparents suffer from dementia and Alzheimer’s, it would have been negligent to leave them living in the only house they’ve ever owned, even though we all desperately wish they could’ve continued living there. We parsed through their many accumulations: books (of which there were many), clothes, files, junk mail, CDs, and assortments of various things. The treasures of their time spent in Africa, from their Missionary days. Photo albums. We uncovered patterns we never noticed before, small nuances that allowed us to glimpse and understand my grandparents a little more and sympathize with the state they’re currently in (not that they’re decrepit—far from. They still possess the same kind and gentle qualities mixed with a curious charm that I recall from childhood though it is hard to accept when I juxtapose today with happy years gone by).  

The germ of summer weather initiated our journey and carried us through to June, in every drop of sweat, as we transported their items out of their house, preparing for new ownership. It was a long and grueling process in which the heat oversaw many days. The devilish sun cooked us remorselessly the day we carried my grandfather’s many bookcases into storage along with a slight amount of furniture (albeit heavy articles), a wardrobe of clothing, and boxes upon boxes of documents. My aunts were sat on the floor most days shredding anything with a modicum of identity. We decluttered closet after closet, making discoveries that left us feeling like this project would never end. Real estate is a fun, persnickety process, as we found out, and even though everything was all right in the end, we still can’t help but feel winded and depleted.

Closing day did come. I went over for the last time in the early morning to assist my aunts, mom, and sister in the final cleaning. Sweeping tiles, dusting baseboards, vacuuming. The house seemed vacant, devoid of my grandparent’s presence ever being there, yet the ghosts of many memories danced around in front of my eyes. I looked out over the kitchen where I saw my grandmother and me making peanut butter cookies, right down to smashing the dough longways and sideways with a fork before we baked them in the original ‘70s oven that couldn’t fit a standard size cookie sheet. I looked beyond toward the breakfast area where a big, flat plane window looked over the front patio, where my grandmother kept all of her delicate plants trimmed and tranquil, and recalled devotionals, cheesy eggs and ham, and bright morning sunshine after we grandchildren slept the night. I saw my grandpa holding us there for what seemed like hours, talking the whole time, my grandma by his side. He hardly talks so much today, which is why I relish every random outburst of conversation he begins. One doesn’t stop being a preacher after decades of the profession.

And leaving that house as clean and tidy as the day my grandparents moved into it invoked a passionate response as we departed. We cried all we could before the humidity stole our ability to form tears. It isn’t so much a house as it is an entry in a short story collection: the characters are all still the same, but the story has ended, and it’s time to move on to the next, carrying with us what we had witnessed before. That story lasted twenty years, and it was a good twenty years. I got in my car, took a mental snapshot of how I’ll always remember that house, wiped the newly formed sweat off my forehead, and drove away for the last time.

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My final June adventure began only a few short days after that moment: I was finally embarking on a new journey West again. Colorado lies in many a wanderlust’s heart. I am no different, and the West was calling my name.

Well, not so much the West as it was, honestly, my aunt and uncle. A now-former Navy Commander, my uncle has been stationed in many exciting places, and Colorado Springs was his last. We—my mom, my dad, and I—flew to attend his Retirement Ceremony as representatives of our family since everyone else had been wrapped up in closing the house and airfare is expensive. But one doesn’t fly all the way out there to stare longingly at the Front range and go home. No, we went day after day, filling the hours with wonderful mountain air, bright sunshine, and the feeling of freedom, enjoying the company of my aunt and uncle as they are usually the ones flying East to see us.

As if it were in question, Colorado is incredible. It took no coercion to smile while I was there, even if it quivered at the thought of returning home in just a week. The mountains are grandiose; the front range is so jarring and prominent; the differences in landscape and temperament are effortlessly recognizable. Pike’s Peak boldly watches over all in the valleys. The Rockies are just a few feet short of heaven. The Garden of the Gods is mysterious (and I still maintain that the original story of how the park was named is underwhelming—it’s much better to concoct a story from Greek mythology and go with that). The area is home to endless adventuring, and the richness of my time spent there, though fleeting, is unforgettable.

And the heat is bearable: the shade actually provides relief from the oppressive rays of the sun. Though it’s so easy to get sunburned in God’s country, it’s avoidable, whereas, back home, the threat of wholly evaporating into thin air is constantly plaguing you. It’s still hot, but out there, the air is sinfully welcoming.

I’m by inclination a melancholy individual, and it’s pretty straightforward to see how I received, was taught, or inherited that leaning. It was a proud moment for me to be present at the conclusion of my Uncle’s Naval career, especially since I was there for the start of it—I may have been too young to remember his Graduation, but I’ll clearly remember his Retirement. In his remarks, he mentioned something that I wholly identify with and am similarly afflicted by: it isn’t so much the conclusion of something you’ve known for over two decades as it is merely the passage of time; it isn’t so much that things end as it is that they must end sometime.

The closing of another story is terrific, spawning new starts left and right, but there is always a twinge of melancholy that things will not be as they were, perhaps ever again. And that sorrow is beguiling. Change is inevitable, and it does no one any good to cling to anything too firmly. It’s an interesting facet of the human dilemma, I think. I wish to be as steadfast and immovable as the mountains, but the truth is, even the mountains can’t resist the ebbs and flows of time. Their schedule is much wider than ours, but they still bend to the winds and the movements of plates.

The Colorado trip will have to be given a more fleshed-out rendering, but for now, I want it memorialized like this because I’m back to reality. Surely the road to freedom banks West, but until then, I will enjoy the hills and hollers of my Southern Appalachians, hoping the summer spares me enough negotiable outdoor hours to summit a few more peaks and breathe in the air I want to be comforted by.

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So.

How does a never-ending June end?

It just does. My glasses fogged over the second I exited the airport, and the months had changed. All that remains of June are the heat, humidity, and my memories. More concerts are on the horizon, and more opportunities to see my friend’s happiness are underway. We no longer have the weight of a house to clean and sell, smashing us down. I’m ardently trying to resist making Colorado my entire personality for the next several weeks, even though it’s difficult when you’ve discovered something for yourself, and the avidity to return is matched by nothing.

It’s odd how we can go looking for evocative moments but the most authentic evocative moments we have and remember came to us when we weren’t searching for them, not by our manifestation.  

Yet here in July, we can rest, basking in air conditioning and enjoying the provocative iridescence of waning time.

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Sam Fender — Spit of You

Coleman Hell — Fireproof

twenty one pilots — Mulberry Street

The Chain Gang of 1974 — Wallflowers

Blanco White — On the Other Side

Sister Sparrow — Mama Knows

Lee DeWyze — Castles