The day the Summer Solstice arrives, our corner of the universe seems to hold its breath. Then it lets go with one long, smooth sigh that gives way to sprinklers chugging, swing sets creaking, and the endless whispering of the fir branches. All this we expect. Year after year. What we didn’t expect was the arrival of the Boar.
I live in a neighborhood perched in the treetops above a small city, a capital city, Olympia. Our houses are comfortable—some charming, some bleak. Most were built between the two World Wars, so we all are sympathetic to rotting floor joists and crumbling chimneys. They are small with generous lawns and porches. They have been here since the largest employer, the state government, competed with the other large employer, the Olympia Brewing Company. Yes, I grew up in a town where beer and politics went hand in hand and no one raised an eyebrow.
On the night of the Summer Solstice, I sat on my grandparent’s porch reading the town newspaper. I liked the stories about places I knew; I could close my eyes and smell the onion bagels at Otto’s bakery downtown or feel the pelting sprayer heads when they all burst up from the ground drenching me at the Sprinkler Park. Next door, Arthur Graves sat silently on his porch swing. He moved it just enough so that the chains wouldn’t squeak.
Finally at ten o’clock, the air around me began to turn dusky. I could swing my arms through it like hands in water; they would appear and disappear while the tired, setting sun cast shadows. My cat, Annie, rubbed against my stubbly knees, turning figure eights and purring like a proud tigress.
There was no rustling of bushes or padding