Summers Outside the City

When I was 60, I said, "I probably have 25 summers left. Now that I'm 85, I say, "I probably have 5 or 10 summers left."That’s how I have been projecting the probable length of my life—in terms of summers I might have left to enjoy. How many more times, I ask myself, will I see an abundance of green leaves, smell flowers in full bloom, and hear birds chirping? How many more times, I ask, will I go barefoot in the grass, swim in the lake, read by the pool, and nap in the hammock? How much longer will I be able to relish the delights that only summers outside the city can bring me?

  It's only now that I realize how much I’ve defined my life by the kinds of summers I have. Since my thirties, I’ve owned a summer place upstate for weekends, holidays and summer vacations. After I retired, some 13 years ago, I sold the house and have been fortunate to put the profit into spending my summers on the Cape and in the Berkshires Though I love living in the city, Sept thru June, come July, there’s no way I want to be here. It’s hot, humid and stinky. The smell of dog urine and rotten food rises from the streets and sidewalks on every block. It’s suffocating. I can’t breathe.

  How did this happen? How did a kid from Queens—who happily spent her summers in the schoolyard playing stickball with her friends, then go home to cool off under a backyard hose—come to dread the thought of summer months in the city?

  It goes back to when I was 5 and went to bed with a small fan next to me and a cold towel on my forehead. I remember my mother refreshing the towel during the night so I’d stay cool, spending days in our basement, the coolest place in the house, and taking frequent dips in one of the large laundry sinks that Mom filled with cold water. I remember the first air conditioned places was movie theaters, with big banners swinging from the marquees saying Air Cooled Inside. Every Saturday afternoon during the summer, Mom gave me a quarter to see a double feature and keep cool. Then came air-cooled Chinese restaurants. On Sundays, instead of cooking dinner at home after church, we’d find relief from the heat by enjoying egg rolls and chop suey at our local Chinese restaurant.

  My first real summer vacation was at Lake George, the first year of my first marriage. The hotel was right on the lake and I recall having to be dragged out of the water; if I could have slept afloat on the lake, I would have. It was at that moment that I knew I was a water baby. In the water, the whole world worked; I felt light and carefree. Then and there, I vowed to treat myself to more summers near the water, which is how, after our two kids were born, I came to rent for the summer along the shore in Connecticut so that my husband could commute from work on a daily basis. We rented houses in Darien, New Canaan and Greenwich, all of which were a short drive from the Long Island shore. Our favorite was in Greenwich, on Todd’s Point, one of the town’s prettiest beaches. Eventually we bought a summer cottage in Rhinebeck, NY (Dutchess County) and spent summers there until my husband and I divorced. We sold the house and put the proceeds in an education account for the kids.

  Years later, when Richard and I married, we sold his brownstone in Brooklyn and invested in a summer place in Spencertown, NY, in Columbia County. We spent as much time there as we could: weekends, holidays and, since we were both working, a few weeks each summer. It was a country ranch was on two private acres with a stream running through. I tried to grow a vegetable garden only to learn that I didn’t have a green thumb. By summer’s end, we had just a few tomatoes, a few cukes and some lettuce, which became the most delicious but most expensive salad items we’d ever eaten.

  Six years ago, we sold the house in Spencertown. We both were retired, and Richard began having trouble walking. In addition to several bouts with cancer, including a colostomy, arthritis had settled in his knees and was starting to cripple him. Three years ago, his cognitive skills began to wither and he became anxious and frail, and reluctant to leave our apartment.  We started splitting our summers between Cape Cod and Great Barrington. Then it became too far for him to go to the Cape; then it became too far for him to go to Great Barrington. The last time he did so, he spent one night and begged to go home the next morning.

  For the past five years, in July and August, I’ve been spending weekdays in Great Barrington and weekends in the city. I rent an apartment in a large lovely modern house, tucked on six acres just outside the town. It’s become my home away from home; I have become close friends with the owners of the main house, enjoy their pool, appreciate their many generosities; they invite me to come at other times of the year—a week in the fall and a week in early spring—at no charge, except to pay for the housekeeper.

  I just learned that this probably will be the last summer I can spend in the Berkshires, or anywhere, unless it’s free. Being retired means living on limited resources which means just that: my finances are limited. I have enough to live on comfortably, but my discretionary funds are depleted. This year I could afford it bec

ause of a small insurance windfall that covered the rental of the house and car. Next year: zilch. But I am grateful for the lovely summers at the Cape and in the Berkshires I have had.

  Now I have to figure out another way to measure my years remaining.