This week, we watched a movie that reminded me of a summer love I had so many years ago, “The Summer of ’42.” No, I did not come of age as did Hermie in the movie. Nonetheless, it rekindled a memory of the year we rented a cottage at the Narragansett, RI shore.
In 1952, when I was thirteen, something stirred in me that I had not experienced. In the early evenings, we played softball in the small, grassy field fronting the cabins across the street from the beach.
One evening, ambling by and silhouetted against the dipping sun was a girl with blond, shiny hair tied in a ponytail. I shielded my eyes. Her white sweatshirt accentuated her tan. She turned, smiled, raised her hand, and scrunched a wave. I looked around. She was waving at me!
I crouched, rose to my toes, stood straight up, brushed off my sweatshirt and, like a truant schoolboy, shuffled toward her. “Be right back.”
My heart was pounding. I paused, tucked my shirt, tightened my belt, and scratched the back of my calf with the toe of my sneaker, finally picking up the pace.
I think she was older. Girls looked older. She was tall and pretty. Her ponytail fluttered in the breeze. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was wide. With a gentle puff through a curled upper lip, she blew a strand of golden hair out of her right eye; the one that winked, I’m sure.
I removed my hat and ran my hand over the stubble of my rah-rah.
I tapped my glove like Doerr and pawed the dirt like Williams. I wish I had carried my bat. After an inaugural silence, I eked out a croaky “Hi.” I was looking for her to run with my opening.
“Hi. I saw you playing.” My face reddened. She fiddled with her gimp bracelet. I had a gimp bracelet.
“Oh, yeah, uh, thanks.” I dunked my right hand into my pocket. The left still held the glove.
What’s your name?” --- Eddie. I should have said Ed. I realized how shy and young I was. I looked back at the field, turned, and looked into her eyes for a millisecond. I think they were blue.
“I’m Ann. I’m staying with a friend. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. Or maybe at the outdoor movie on Saturday. You go to those movies, don’t you?”
Meet? The outdoor movie? My favorite. “Yes. I love them. I go every Friday in the city. With friends. Go to the Cream-ry fa ice cream after.”
“OK, see ya.”
I was as excited as if I had hit a grand slam. Her hair swung from side to side as she walked away. I ran at top speed back to the game. Uncle Carl smiled as I sped by.
When settled, I watched her in the distance. I forgot to ask where she was staying or where she lived in the city. Tomorrow.
That night, as I lay in bed, I imagined holding her hand. The next morning, I bounded out of bed, slipped on my bathing suit, skipped breakfast and hustled to the beach. Empty.
I strolled to the next. Vacant. Too early perhaps. The rest of the week was no different, no matter the time. During the days, I walked the beach, but Ann was not to be found.
On Saturday evening, I sped to the outdoor movie. Not there. I never saw her again. She became a summer memory.
The beach beckoned us by day and captured us by night with its steady, predictable rhythm of rising sun, crashing waves, cool breezes, and the moon’s reflections. It was more than just a beach that summer. Something stirred in me for the first time.
As I write this, I realize how goofy I was and for how long. I needed a coat of maturity.
When I rekindle those summer days, I realize how lucky I was.
At July’s end, it was time to return to the city. One evening, I sat on a rock and looked at the ocean, the crimson sky, and the setting sun. Save for the crackling waves, everything was silent.
The infinite rhythm of the ocean was like the ticking metronome in music class. It wasn’t the melancholy-last -days- of -summer ticking. It was the melodic tick of the last days of summer at -- the -- beach. I still had August.
Those days felt good. I was suspended in time. Can it be that it will only and ever be the summer that I was thirteen?
Those days transpired in a world of crabbing and Noxzema and outdoor movies and softball. Adolescence seemed innocent then.
Those days filled me with joy, molding the early days of youth, the memory of a fleeting moment adding even more. At that point, things started to change. I began to realize what was happening.
Ó 2025
A poignant memoir of a summer love so beautifully expressed through metaphors and sensory descriptors. This story presents and respects the awkward and delicate feelings of adolescents. It is too precious not to be shared elsewhere for others to savor.
LK
Enchanting story. A Rhode Island kid discovering new emotions.
Like Gozzano, who wrote “Amai di più la rosa che non colsi,
quella che la beltà d’un dì serbava,
l’illusïon cara che cullava
l’anima mia col suo sogno morente.”
The longing for what never was is more powerful than the love for what truly was.