It became a little tradition years ago–I don’t know how many–to name my summers as the school year wrapped up. One was The Summer of Reading where I read eight books while running around after my two year old. The only two of the eight I remember are Holes by Louis Sachar and On Death and Dying, by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. That was the summer Papá died of lung cancer less than two months after his 80th birthday. It was the one where I presented a summer PD session on teaching poetry. I got the phone call five minutes before my session began. I presented anyway, faking enthusiasm. Left the conference early and packed up to head home. I wrote his eulogy in the car on the way there while hubby drove. My first piece of writing done entirely in Spanish.

Another one was The Summer of Learning. I taught myself how to knit using a kid’s book from my middle school library. An old one, published in 1972, was better than newer instruction books. I figured a book written for kids should be foolproof. It was. I learned enough to say I know how to knit, but I never made anything more complicated than a baby’s hat or scarf. I should pick up my sticks again, if I can find them.

The Summer I Turned 40 took me on a girls trip to Las Vegas. The one where we were shushed on a 7:00 a.m. nonstop flight by some “crabby old lady” who was likely jealous of our youth. That’s what we told ourselves anyway. Seriously, who sleeps on the way to Vegas? And no, we didn’t have a single mimosa in our systems. We made a Top 10 list of things we wanted to do and hit 7 out of 10. Hit a couple of dollars on the nickel slots. Watched some shows. Discovered the cheapest place to buy alcohol was Walgreens while webwatched a guy open a bottle of vodka, pour it into a fountain drink cup, and walk right out without a fuss.

Then there was The Summer of Getting Things Done! We took a family vacation to Playa del Carmen and invited my mom as a bonus. When we arrived home from our trip, my parents volunteered to take the kids for a week so I could have some uninterrupted time to declutter and take a break. We packed the kids, S had just turned five and E was eleven, and took a little breather. That evening, hubby and I went to a movie. I mean, why not? Before the movie was over, I remember feeling cold. Summers are hot and while the movie theater is cool, it wasn’t that cold. I went to bed, shivering, piled on the blankets and slept. And slept. And slept. The next morning, it hit hubby. Flu. Must have caught it on the flight back. Nothing got done before it was time to go back to get the kids. Sigh…

I haven’t made time to think about this one. So far, I’m doing what I can to get out and do things rather than lament how quickly the summer goes and being stuck inside catching up on home projects that like to wait for summer. One week in, and I’m already bleary and brain-fogged, unable to figure out which day it is. It is Tuesday, I remind myself. I *tried* playing pickle ball this morning. First time. I may go again. Sunday, hubby suggested we go to the UT baseball game. It’s summer, why the hell not? (That’s been my attitude lately.) It was a late game which meant it ended even later. After midnight.

Last week consisted of shopping with S., a hike with friends, our 27th anniversary, and running around on countless errands. I managed to pop in for a week of virtual creativity workshops and a book launch by Austin Kleon, complete with an aesthetic book stack that would make any influencer, well, influence.

If I don’t name this summer, I’ll take it as it comes and figure it out later. No plan is a good plan.

As far as my book stack goes, I haven’t touched it since I snapped the picture.