June 21st. The earth stops and the sun is suspended in the sky longer today than any other day of the year. In the Midwest, this can mean a long, beautiful day of sun and fun or more daylight to get a better look at clouds and wind and rain.
I remember several days long ago when I thought the day would never end and didn’t want the sun to set. One day in particular stands out. I was in summer school at Tarkio College in 1970. It was such a gorgeous day that hardly anyone went to class. The large grassy area behind the girls’ dorm, Hopkins Hall, was the place to be for impromptu Frisbee contests, softball games, maybe some soccer, and lots of just sitting around in the sun with friends. I think everyone on campus was there most of the day. It was one of those perfect days, too. The cloudless sky was also calm and a perfect temperature—not the possible unbearable heat and humidity. Lunch and supper from the cafeteria or snack bar were takeout. No one wanted to leave.
Eventually the sun approached the horizon and we watched the azure sky become pink, rose, reddish-purple, deep blue. We watched stars appear in the clear sky. Millions. Billions. Even the rising moon couldn’t diminish the showy constellations. The Milky Way was a creamy streak. Still we stayed to watch the shifting pinpoints and chase their reflections in the lightning bugs that zipped across the yard. We wanted it to last, but that day blended into the next with all the promises the future holds. A perfect memory.
Today—forty-one years later—was much different. Last night storms ripped through the area. High winds brought down tree limbs. A tornado destroyed buildings nearby. Heavy rain and hail pounded the area. The Missouri River, already well over flood stage, rose another destructive foot. The day brought more clouds, cold wind and rain, and the promise of more devastation. The day seemed like it would never end, but we wanted to put it behind us. Whatever could go wrong seemed eager to oblige.
I spent the day with my father in the hospital. Nurses and doctors were in and out of his room, attaching tubes, running tests, exchanging grim faces for reassuring smiles. Aneurism, weakening valve, decreasing heart function. Eighty-one years taking their toll. The sun was out there, behind the clouds and the rain. The promise of tomorrow was still in the air, but our conversations were more about yesterdays, and plans for “tomorrow” were “what ifs.”
It was the longest day of the year. I thought it would never end and let me could go home and try to sleep and forget for a time. Too many memories were vying for my attention. I had too many phone calls to make to marvel at the ferocity of the storms or wonder where the stars were hiding.
As I drove home, thinking about the day’s events and another summer solstice, I kept remembering Dylan Thomas and wondered if he might have written, on the longest day of his year,
“Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
