Summer of Change - Summer of Return

I drove north on the Interstate in search of the cicada song. We don't get to hear them in the city and I miss them. Most people think I'm crazy to say that and wish they could trade places. I would if I could. Growing up downstate, the whirring buzz of our once-every-17th-year visitors rang through the trees and provided the soundtrack to those rare summers - the ones that live faintly in memory when you move to bigger, more "important" places.

Chicago is fantastic, but it doesn't keep you awake at night for the right reasons. More bugs - less guns, please.

I decided to check out the future home of my brother's family. By the end of this summer they will have moved to a northern suburb of lovely homes, spacious lawns, and first-rate schools. I was curious to get a feel for the area. Their current neighborhood was changing for the worse - with slipping school standards being the primary concern - and they were headed for greener property values.

As I entered the city limits, I noticed a couple of things. The police station was perhaps the most inviting-looking and non-threatening public building I have ever seen - nicely landscaped with carefully-chosen shrubbery and plentiful parking. It was night time and discreet floodlights lit up the department's name, scripted in "Book Antiqua", posted on sand-colored flagstone. Damn. I wanted a reason to stop in and see if they offered gourmet coffee at the seargent's desk.

The other thing I took note of was the local funeral home. It had a hyphenated name. And those two particular names were the same as an old high school buddy of mine AND the actual name of the high school we attended. Let's call the funeral home "K-S". About 1/4 mile beyond the funeral home, I turned left - off the main strip - to explore the residential area of this town. It was quiet - with a canopy of trees hanging over the gently curving lanes that wound through the neighborhood. Absolutely no 90 degree-angle intersections to be found anywhere. Instead, every crossing-area was like a soft pretzel that might twist you towards NW or NNW or SE or SSW... only the locals knew for sure. I cruised along with my windows down - trying to hear the cicadas. There was only the familiar sound of crickets and external air-conditioning units humming in unison. It was a peaceful campus of lawns and driveways - no cars parked along the curb, but then again, no signs prohibiting it either. A bit further and the surrounding trees grew thicker but still no cicadas. At one point, the road narrowed a bit to accomodate a small creek bridge and I realized that there was actually a jogging/biking path coming out of the woods, on my right. Oh yeah - my nephews are going to love this. As I drove on I realized that all these meandering streets had completely disoriented me. Where the hell was I - and who the hell cares. I was lost in a quiet sidebar of July that can only happen if you let it.

A middle-aged couple sipped wine on their patio.
A Saturday night card game glowed through a picture window.
Two girls walked their Irish Setter along the sidewalk in perfect safety.

That was about all the "action" I saw happening in the area. Beautiful homes and lawns that rolled out to perfect sidewalks under arches of maple. Clear skies with more stars than the city. And a lot less noise. As I was leaving, the radio station I was listening to in the car began a "Todd Rundgren Hour". I suddenly remembered my buddy "K" and how this area was similar to his own neighborhood back home. Back in high school, we spent many a summer night in the quiet splendor of manicured lawns and hushed driveways - smoking cigarettes and chugging bottles of "something/anything". Our acoustic guitars lit up every backyard party we attended and Rundgren was like a silent partner - hovering in the branches of our youth and smiling in stereo.

And here I was - in the soon-to-be-hometown of my nephews. Would they even care about Todd Rundgren at any point in their lives ? Who knows. I doubt it. They will carve out their own summers - their own getaways of music and art and memory. And I will do my share to make sure they hold off on the indulgences that "K" and myself and our friends undertook at that age. Summer is a buzz all its own.

I never did hear the cicadas, but I caught an unexpected echo. As "Real Man" kicked in on the radio, I wheeled out of the subdivision and headed back to the city. Summer is for kids, summer is forever and, at the age of 45, I think I'm the last teenager standing.