Here in Dorset, summer has finally, at long last, arrived. Of course, it may be that it's gone even by the time I've finished writing this, for that's the way of summers here in Britain. Why is it we remember endless sunny days from when we were children? It must have rained SOMETIME.
I am just about old enough to remember the heatwave and drought of 1976, where by all accounts standpipes were set up in the in towns and cities, and swarms of ladybirds ran riot. The latter fact, by the way, is one I just looked up, as I was only four in 1976 and certainly don't remember that kind of detail about that long, hot summer. I do remember dusty streets, losing my ball under a shed and playing cap guns with the boy down the road before watching Elvis movies on the TV. And then, I remember the thunderstorms that finally brought the end to the heatwave, for a lightning bolt hit the pavement outside our house and the TV went off. (I don't think we were watching Elvis movies at the time. I thought it might have been either CHiPS or Taxi but none of these programmes existed in 1976, so my brain is malfunctioning on that one).
My point is this. As children - and very often as adults - our memories give us filtered highlights. What will I remember of this first Dorset summer of mine - and more importantly, what will my little boy remember? As parents, we want to give our children experiences that will offer up wonderful memories when they're older; positive experiences that will give them the building blocks to shape their future lives into whatever they want to be. I hope my little boy remembers petting cows and ducks, watching the hay being brought in from the fields, and long slow walks along Dorset's trailways, looking out for wildlife. I hope he remembers playing on the beach, garden parties with his friends, filling his new playhouse with cars and toys. I'd like him to remember running around outside cooling off under the hosepipe as I water the ever-charring lawn.
He is four years old, just like I was in 1976. Perhaps I will remember in future to ask him what he remembers of his first Dorset summer. Chances are, he'll remember playing LEGO games on his iPad and how many yoghurts he's eaten (if he can count that high - I'm not sure I can). But his memories are not mine to make. The experiences are just mine to give. What he remembers in time is his alone to know. As long as it's a happy memory, then I can also remember my first Dorset summer with happiness.
