Summer Solstice

Family history resides in all the seasons and all the senses. Last night was summer solstice, capping off the longest day of the year. I sat in my yard until dark, and then , on my porch where all I could do was listen. We hear our memories loud and clear. Familiar, forgotten sounds speed us back, as do sight, smell, taste, and the feel of a soft, old bedspread on the skin. I didn't realize I'd missed seeing robins on the lawn until I returned to Ohio. I see robins on the lawn now and understand I've saved a place in my heart for them for twenty years.

Last night, after the longest day, I saw lightning bugs by the peony bush and felt my father near. Once again, I opened a gift he gave me. The kind of gift you cannot touch. The gift of recognition. My dad was an aficianado of the perfect summer evening.

Around nine o'clock on summer solstice night, I hear his voice, as if he were beside me. He asks to go "Upstaice." ( To those of you who don't speak Dad Greene as a Second Language, "upstaice" means upstairs. ) He'd say it with a whistle at the end and a backache groan as he rose from his chair.

"Upstaicsssse," he'd say, and he and my mother would go Upstaicsssse. Nothing impeded his speech. He just thought it was funny.

I hadn't thought about "upstaice" until it sounded in my head, in my father's voice. We are able to go back. Sometimes a season takes us there.