A Tale of Two Summers

I have always seen myself as something of a winter person. I love cold weather, and I enjoy taking it easy with family and close friends during the holidays. Plus, the prospect of being presented with a pile of presents on Christmas morning really doesn't hurt anything either. I like hot cocoa in all its varieties, and I am proficient in both the ice rink and in a toboggan. My meticulously formed snowballs are the gold standard by which all others are judged. Yes, it would seem that winter is the season for me. Well, me and every other sentimental, unathletic, wannabe writer in the Western Hemisphere. However, this summer may just have been glorious enough to shift my seasonal loyalty. But it didn't start out that way.... Despite the irrefutable scientific evidence that consistently suggests summer begins in late June, I start to feel a shift usually around Memorial Day. The thermometer is consistently above 80 degrees, people start cooking out, and school is a distant memory. Around that particular time this summer, I was headed home from China about a month early for a tiny but surprisingly Earth-shattering foot injury. I was informed by my father at the Charlotte Airport that he fully intended to go to the beach, as Dixon family tradition dictates the last couple of weeks in May are reserved for some time on the South Carolina sand. I got clearance for the trip the following morning from my orthopedic surgeon, so long as I promised to stay off of sand, and avoid spending any amount of time in any sort of water. Like, for example, pools, hot tubs, and the Atlantic Ocean.... With these instructions, a surprisingly Iron Man-esque walking cast, and several spy novels to occupy my time, Dad and I headed directly from the medical complex to the beach, where the rest of my family was waiting. I misplaced my tanning lotion, finished my all my books in a little over a day, and spent the rest of my time in the condo- pale, introverted, and extremely fidgety. I passed the remaining days watching Spongebob Squarepants marathons, engaging in deep brooding, and restlessly gimping through the condo. I returned home feeling none of my typical affection for the beach. None whatsoever. Once I was back, it was time to begin the process of my mission paperwork. My mom had meticulously scheduled a series of doctor's appointments that would have taken most people months to complete. In less than two weeks, I had gotten a series of shots, had follow up visits for my foot injury, and was missing all four of my wisdom teeth. For those of you that don't know Mom, just picture that lady from the Blind Side. They are exactly the same. They both just run around being sassy and getting things done. Thus by Father's Day, I had every shred of necessary documentation and validation ready to be sent to Salt Lake. During this time and a few subsequent weeks, I was completely immobilized. My car collected spiderwebs in the driveway, and I eagerly anticipated each doctor's appointment days in advance as an excuse to get out of the house. I begged to accompany my mother on every single insignificant errand and trip to the grocery store. She soon became an expert at leaving the house in an extraordinarily ninja-like fashion, and the sound of my booming, uneven footfalls would send her running for the sanctuary of her minivan. Likewise, I unintentionally annoyed all my closest friends with a series of increasingly mundane medical updates. I may as well have been a withering, ancient shut-in. To top it all off, My cast was starting to smell like a German restaurant, and I was eventually forbidden to remove it when other people were in the vicinity. By the end of June, I was eagerly awaiting three things: the removal of my cast, the arrival of my mission call, and my trip to Delaware to see my good friend Andrew. This trip had somehow escalated from a long weekend reunion of sorts in DC to an eleven day, multi-state extravaganza. I was elated. On June 30th, the cast was removed. By July 4th, my summer had made a remarkable turn for the better. The legalization of the sale of fireworks within Kingsport City Limits resulted in an Independence Day to rival the 1776 original. Pyrotechnic smoke filled the skies for days before the 4th, and the show put on by the Dixon Family was the envy of Rotherwood Estates- receiving defeated applause from the neighbors who thought they could out-redneck us with their pitiful displays. When the last sparkler was extinguished, I had nothing but Delaware on my mind. I was packed and ready to go, but eventually got nervous. Andrew of course knew what to expect, but how would I be received by his family? What would they think of this hillbilly stranger who occupies the space of two humans, eats for three, and talks enough for at least ten? Fortunately my fears were quickly cast aside when Sister Jones picked me up at the Philadelphia Airport. We talked all the way to Wilmington, as two deceptively twin-like girls slept in the back seat. Upon arriving to their house, I adjusted to the family with ease, and was introduced to Brother Jones, Sarah, Mary, Catie, Davis, and the absent Spencer, as they all darted around the kitchen making sandwiches.  I got reacquainted with Elizabeth, Andrew's sister, who had provided us with an impeccable tour of Washington when we were all at SVU in the fall. We all then headed to Andrew's American Legion baseball game. When we got back, I was presented with any number of sleeping arrangements, each carefully devised with my comfort in mind. I popped right up the next morning, and helped everyone pack for our camping trip in Palmyra, NY. It was Davis' fourteenth birthday and we celebrated with some Rita's Water Ice. After paying for my Gelati, I turned to see all 8 Joneses laughing at me. I was confused. We have Rita's in Tennessee; certainly I hadn't made some embarrassing mistake ordering? No, my mistake was that I had paid for my own treat, in strict violation of Jones Family Policy. It was at the end of that night that I felt at home. The next day, we headed out. Our road trip was rife with shenanigans, and Andrew and I passed the time taking dashboard pictures and desperately scanning the rural Pennsylvania airwaves for rap stations. The campsite was great, despite the inability of two Eagle Scouts to put up a two man tent with color coded poles.. Elizabeth, Wilderness Domestic Extraordinaire, prepared our pre-pageant hot dogs. And then, just in time, we all piled in the van and headed to the Hill Cumorah Pageant. It was an amazing show and an incredibly spiritual experience. By the time the night was over, Andrew and I were eagerly anticipating Pageant Round Two the following night. We all swam in Cayuga Lake, and toured Church history sites in Palmyra. As soon as we had finished our tour of the Grandin Press, I got a phone call from my parents back in Tennessee. My mission call had arrived, just as Andrew predicted, on July 9th. I was warmly congratulated by the whole Jones family, and July 9th, 2011 will go down in my memory as one of my best days ever. We got back to Delaware Sunday night, and started planning the week I had left. I was flattered when Andrew allowed his usual noon wake up time to be repeatedly interrupted by all of our activities. I was shown around Wilmington- ("A Place to be Somebody,") Philadelphia, Old Newcastle, a botched Valley Ride, and every other nook and cranny of the Tri-State Area. And thanks to some careful planning, I got my summer beach trip after all when Andrew, Elizabeth, Sarah and I headed Downstate (..ahem... Lower Slower) to Cape Henlopen for the day. It was by far the nicest beach I have ever been to, no matter what Southern beach purists might claim to the contrary. The day was filled with sandcrabs, Blue Drank, and a bay/bird sanctuary with tricksy-temperature water and a good deal of foul smelling sand. By this time, Andrew had introduced me to Wawa, the legendary Tri-State convenience store. My stay in Delaware perfectly coincided with Hoagiefest, the month long celebration of Wawa's hoagie greatness. By the time I left, I had consumed several hoagies and no less than four gallons of Blue Drank, that sugary elixir of life that only Wawa has. Such was the power of this seemingly unimportant store that towards the end of my stay, I shouted at a sullen overweight man outside the car window as we passed, discerning from his paunchy, faded Wawa t-shirt that he may have in fact been Hoagieman himself. My desperate shouting out the window was the source of much amusement for the Joneses. Appropriately enough, my vacation also coincided with the midnight premiere of the final installment of the Harry Potter series. Elizabeth, Andrew, and I donned lightning bolt scars and headed for the theatre and our 12:04 showing. It was one of the last things we all did together, and it seemed to be an suitable way to wrap up the trip. It also served as the melodramatic nail in the coffin of my childhood. When the movie was over, all us Harry Potter nerds the world over were confident in the knowledge that there would be no more books and no more movies. It truly was the end. And this end just so happened to occur as all those same nerds are approaching the frightening independence of adulthood. It suddenly occurred to me that the remarkable summer I was now having may very well be the last of its kind. After my mission, it will be time to buckle down. I doubt my parents will buy me a plane ticket to Delaware to galavant around for eleven days. As much as my friends mean to me, we'll likely all be spread throughout the country, and visits will be infrequent. Not that I would have the time to take off work anyway. It's a sobering realization. A few days into the trip, Elizabeth remarked that I had transcended the status of "guest" in the Jones household. We were all just too familiar for such nonsense at that point. And I am not mawkish and naive enough to suggest that I became a "family member" in those eleven short days either. But I was certainly somewhere in between. I appreciated the hospitality of the whole family, and the good times we all had made the trip the indisputable high point of my summer. Needless to say, I spent the last couple of days trying to make all of it last. But all too soon, Andrew dropped me off at the airport, and before I knew it, I was home. My mission call was thrust into my hand, and a few hours later all my extended family gathered with baited breath to hear the news. I had cameras rolling, and the Joneses on speakerphone as I shook like an autumn leaf waiting to read my call. "Dear Elder Dixon... You have been assigned to serve in the Philippines Cauayan Mission." People clapped and cheered, and I floated through the rest of the evening.  I knew that it was an inspired call as soon as my eyes landed on the words. Now that I am back in Kingsport, at least for the next couple of months, I have gotten to reunite with Courtney and the rest of my hometown homies. I've been home less than a week, and we've had a great time together almost every day, going around town, harassing our alma mater band, and eating potstickers and drinking limited edition Mountain Dew. As much as I loved being in Delaware, being at home certainly has its charms too. I have nothing but time on my hands- time to spend with my family, time to see friends, and time to temporally and spiritually prepare for my mission. The good news is that there is still some summer left. Time to create even more memories. Because when we inevitably look back on this exciting part of life, no one says "I remember that winter when I got cozy by the fire with a mug of cocoa and some book. Alone." No, memories come from long summer days- days spent with friends and family watching TV marathons, having barbeques, shooting fireworks, singing along with the car radio with the windows rolled down.  And inevitably, everyone has that perfect summer that they won't shut up about to their posterity. For me, this is that summer of "remember when.."