Chapter 12: Summers That Held Me
Even when the rest of the year felt like a storm I couldn’t outrun, summers still came like a promise kept. They were my anchor, pulling me back to Granny’s dirt road where the world made a little more sense. My cousins Janet and Cheri were always there, and Janet especially—she was a year younger, but we were kindred spirits, bonded by secrets we whispered and experiences we shared, some buried deep and others spilled out in the open.
We’d spend hours playing dress-up, pretending to be movie stars in old clothes we’d found in an old trunk in the barn or ones we already had tucked away. We’d play teacher at Cheri’s house with her fancy toys and endless imagination. Cheri, two years younger, had everything: the best dolls, a trampoline we’d bounce on until our legs turned to jelly, snacks that never ran out. We’d ride our motorcycle and moped down to the clubhouse and pool we weren’t members of—sneaking in like it was our own private kingdom. No one ever said a word or seemed to care. We’d play tennis on the courts there too, laughing when the ball went wild, always moving, always playing.
At Granny’s, we’d sprawl on the living room floor with fashion plates, tracing outfits and dreaming up lives we’d live someday. We’d watch TV until Granny shushed us off to bed, then lie under the covers whispering late into the night about boys, dreams, and all the silly girl things that felt so important. Sometimes we’d get crass—farting under the blankets and pulling them tight over each other’s heads, giggling until our sides hurt and Granny hollered from the next room, “Enough! Get to sleep!”
Granny herself was a sight: barely 4’11”, round and plump as a ripe peach, with skin the deep, rich brown of her Native American roots and hair black as midnight. Her eyes were dark as coal, sharp and kind at the same time. She never wore lipstick—just a light dusting of powder on her cheeks and that unmistakable Jungle Gardenia perfume that filled the house like a sweet, heavy cloud.
I can still smell it now, mixed with the scent of her secret stash of those nasty orange circus peanut candies she kept hidden in the cabinet. They were really gross—like soft rubber with little to no flavor! I’d sneak them when she wasn’t looking, thinking I was so clever, popping one into my mouth and chewing fast before she caught me.
She always knew.
She’d just shake her head, smile that small, knowing smile, and say, “Child, you keep that up and you’re gonna get a switching.”
And I’d laugh, cheeks full of that rubbery sweetness, feeling like the most loved little thief in the world.
There were good days with Dad too, like when he’d take us all to Six Flags and sneak us through the back gate by drawing the re-entry stamp on our hands with a pen. We’d ride the coasters until our stomachs flipped, laughing like nothing bad had ever happened.
But not every memory glowed. Dad would drop my sister and me off at the old cemetery with its weathered rock headstones and leave us there in the dark, saying he’d be back soon. One night he took us to the creek behind the cemetery to camp—me, my sister, Janet, and her two brothers. We were on a sandbar across the water, the bonfire crackling bright against the pitch-black woods. No lights for miles, just stars overhead and the deep pines surrounding us. It felt far from home, even though it wasn’t.
Dad told us a terrifying story about a murderous man lurking in the woods. Paranoia settled in like fog—I believed every word. Then he jumped up, doused the fire fast, screaming that the man was there. Panic exploded. I was one of the first to leap across the cold creek, but a hand snatched me back, holding me there while everyone else ran. They scrambled up the bank to the van—Dad with the flashlight, the last bit of light flickering away. Now it was black, absolute dark. I stumbled through the rocky water, heart pounding, only to see taillights shrinking up the road. They were leaving me. I screamed, chased the fading red glow, afraid, saddened, angry, confused.
Finally they stopped, and I climbed in to their laughter. “Crybaby,” they called me.
I wasn’t.
I was scared.
Most of my summers were great, though. It was home. We swam in the pond behind Granny’s house, the water cool and murky, visited the creek and played until our fingers pruned. I still felt loved by Granny—the rest of my family was always there, willing to come get us and bring us to her when Dad wouldn’t. Their arms, their porch, their quiet care—it held me together, even as things started to change.
But summers end.
And the shadows always find their way back.