The August When I Was Nine

There are special times in life when I was school-age. Memories are simply sights and sounds playing out in the mind like a home movie.

Memories are seared deep within my soul, of waking on that very first Monday morning knowing school was done for another term.

You feel it.

Summer.

It was glorious, my bedroom bathed in filtered sunlight peaking from behind drawn curtains. My realization that it was no longer very early morning, but mid-morning, and it was exhilarating. Sleeping until I was really ready to emerge into the day.

Stretching, yawning, then fluffing my feather pillow and pulling the covers close to my face, the familiar sounds and smells emanating from the kitchen, freshly brewed coffee and breakfast foods warming in the oven. Resting on the stovetop, a small pan with loose leaf Lipton tea brewing for lunch and dinner. It gave me comfort that meant only one thing: Freedom from everything restrictive for a few fast-moving months.

The joy of months wearing new summer clothes and shoes, vacation, reading, sleep-overs, extended time with my second parents -- my beloved aunt, uncle and maternal grandmother. Dance classes and playing Nancy Drew with my best friend, searching for clues to solve the crime we invented after reading several of the books. The endless indoor and outdoor games, cards, board games, croquet, badminton, jax, jump rope, talking on the phone with friends. To me, just getting permission to go barefoot (my parents were sticklers about landscaping and it was only plush St. Augustine grass), was divine, and playing in the sprinklers was euphoric.

Closing out the days meant shifting into those Texas evenings, when the air turned cool enough you needed a sweater lying on a blanket, while the adults sat in lawn chairs and lounges staring at the sky above. We called them Lightning Bugs, and all the kids caught them, putting them in jars with holes in the top made with ice picks. I never enjoyed seeing that as I wanted them free to fly in the gorgeous darkness of the evening. Summer, loads of spontaneous adventures. Unforgettable.

But, summer stories can take an unexpected and profound shift, which happened when I was nine and twelve years old. 

At those ages, children typically feel invincible and assume life will just remain steadfastly, securely the same. Forever. Family.

Although I no longer have immediate family, and extended family is just that...so extended they are strangers I don't even know. Living in the past serves no purpose, but capturing my stories matters to me. They are my own to keep; therefore, I feel compelled to step into my summer memories.

Yes. It's summer, and writing is my heartfelt adventure in 2026.

Now, when I was nine my Mother and her sister, my only Aunt, were constant companions doing what they did -- gardening, shopping, lunches, laundry -- taking turns doing it at one house, then the other. They hung clothes outside to dry on discreet yet sturdy lines during the summer. I played outside near them. They called me their Shadow, and no matter what they were doing, I was never that far away. I mean kid-cred means hanging  round adults, covertly, listening to potentially inappropriate topics. It worked until they got weary of it, and sent me packing to do kid stuff. It was a balance, I suppose.

The heart is an endless vessel capable of endless love. My entire life I loved my aunt, my only aunt, with deep love and respect. My mother loved her, too, and there could be sibling rivalry, but she was generous with sharing my sister and I with her older sister, who had no daughters. She wanted girls and boys, but my aunt only had twin sons, who were two years older than I. While one moment they were tormenting me, next they were protecting me from the scuffling going on around the swings, sandbox or vying for a favorite kid show on television.

The twins. My first cousins.

First born, Guy Christopher was gregarious and lit up the room (or yard) everywhere he went. An extrovert, he never met a stranger, which resulted in him being adorned by all. He was a leader. First born.
First to do everything. 

The twins were identical in appearance, except for one small detail. Second born, Gary Michael, had a tiny birth mark on his forehead. Although so similar in looks, they were nothing alike as Gary was a sweet introvert and depended on his brother to do everything first. He was a follower.

The gene pool was kind to them as my aunt, their mother, had movie star beauty, and their Sicilian (first generation American, born and raised in the beauty of Upstate New York) father was extraordinarily kind, gentle and handsome in a Cary Grant sort of way.

Our families were close and the summers were filled with carefree cookouts (done mostly by my father), boating (again thanks to my water-loving father), water skiing, picnics, fishing (not for me) and swimming on a sandy body of water.

Everyone excelled at swimming with the exception of my mother (she was skilled at helming the boat) and I. My sister was the eldest of the cousins and she held that position and title with everything it implies. She and I were so close, but she and the twins were as well. It was like brothers and sisters for us.

That August summer, early evening, when I was nine,  the tide was turning toward the upcoming September. Special activities were winding down; vaccinations, school supplies and clothing had to be dealt with, but as kids, it could be ignored until the day after Labor Day.

That fateful August evening, our parents were out for the evening, and I was under the watchful eye of my big sister. She was going into her senior year of high school, yet she was not above joining in the game of Charades with  a gaggle of kids in varying age groups gathered on the stairs of our front porch. The elevation of the house was significantly high off the ground in the front, hence the stairs were ample for kids to sit or stand. The sidewalk served as overflow for those with high energy levels -- they could jump, run up-and-down or just be rowdy.

Coming near the end of the game, it was my turn, and because I was always the youngest in the group, I got no respect as I was acting out my word. Kids were talking to each other, laughing and basically ignoring my gesturing. My sister, the one really in charge, because she was competitive and always brought her best to any game, even one I was allowed into, gave up and decided we needed sustenance. Mainly, I have always thought she had enough of the kid nonsense and was ready to be her age.

Anyway, she was about to go inside to get drinks and snacks (our parents were big on keeping kids fed and hydrated). I can still see her opening the heavy front door, half-heartedly telling us to settle down, when the phone, resting on the island located between the living room and kitchen, rang. She disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.

No one listened to her instructions, nor did they settle down on that warm summer evening. You know how it looks and feels when twilight is beginning, the sounds of summer bugs and breezes that should feel cool, but don't. The sights and sounds of the next few moments are as clearly etched in my head today as they were that evening in August.
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As she emerged from inside I was prepared to enlist her aid to get the kids to pay attention and try to guess my word. Silent moments passed, and she stood rigid at the top of the stairs, looking at me. Even at nine years old, I knew to remain quiet. I felt it, not what, but something. Even the kids stopped being goofy and stood still. Something was different.

Unexpectedly, she grabbed my hand and said, “Guy drowned.”

In my confusion, I asked innocently, “Is he going to be okay?”

 “He's dead.”

My young mind simply could not process that he was gone.

Being the first in line, his brother and their buddies waiting on the ladder,  he had been first to jump from the high-dive into their favorite local swimming pool and was pulled into an unprotected drain.

Guy Christopher had, only days earlier, turned thirteen.

The family we had known would never be the same. 

That August summer when I was nine.