You know when you have had enough of something and you do not want to see any of it anymore. Well, that is what I think about summer. I’ve had enough of summer and I want to move on with my life.

It’s not that I dislike summer. I love summer. I just don’t want summer all the time. As far as I am concerned, a little bit of good weather goes a long way with me.

Don’t get me wrong here; summer is my favorite time of the year. However, the reason it is my favorite time of the year is that when it is over I have some jolly wonderful memories of summer. I have those memories of summer still lingering on and I want to share them.

When you get my age, memories are very important. At my age, I can have what is called “selective memory.” I am not quite sure who come up with that phrase, but I think they need a Nobel Peace Prize of some sort.

As a young person when I forgot something it was rather embarrassing and my mother or father would scold me and tell me I need to remember things if I was ever going to grow up. Now that I am older, it is not in the same thing, but rather an enabling thing.

Forgetting something enables me to handle life as it comes at me.

For example. The Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage will at times ask me, “Did you remember…?” Of course, it does not matter what the subject is because I will look at her with one of “my looks,” and she will return it with one of “her looks.” She has both hands postured on her hips and I have to back down. I can’t find my hips.

“You know, my dear,” I always try to explain, “at my age I can’t remember very many things.”

She will stare at me for a moment and then say, “I think it’s rather strange that you can remember what you want to remember but you can forget what you want to forget. I’m not sure age has anything to do with it.”

I refuse to get into that tussle because when the wife of the house wins the argument there is a sense of peace and serenity about the house. I like peace and serenity.

I am afraid she has me figured out. If I am not mistaken, she had me figure out the first day she met me. That is the difference between men and women.

That aside, I am still so done with summer. I want to be able to share my memories of this summer while they are still fresh in my mind. Of course, I can always doctor up those memories to fit any occasion.

I was sharing one of my summer memories with someone one time when my wife stepped in and said something like, “I sure don’t remember it that way.”

What is a husband to do? I am in a position where I can either embarrass myself or embarrass my wife. Now if I embarrass myself, everybody will have a laugh at my expense. If, however, I embarrass my wife, I am in for some real trouble when we get home, still at my expense.

This past summer I kept a journal of some of the things that happened. I was having a wonderful time jotting down what would hopefully turn out to be marvelous memories to share with anyone who would listen.

I just cannot wait for summer to be over so I can go dipping into that little journal and share some marvelous memories of my summer.

My journal was of such a nature that only I could read it. I did that on purpose because I wanted nobody else to read it. This is my journal, and it should be a private thing. So, during the summer I tried abbreviated and used code words so nobody could figure out what I was journaling about.

One problem. I kept it so private that when I went back over my journal I did not know what I had written. I could not figure out anything in that journal. Nothing made sense. I was a little disheveled about it until that phrase came dancing into my mind, “selective memory.”

One thing I have learned through the years is, not very many people are interested in the truth. If a memory sounds likely, you can sell it to anybody.

I want it to be clearly understood that I always tell the truth, but not necessarily in chronological order. I think the one who is telling the memory has the privilege of arranging the memory to suit himself. After all, it is my memory and I should tell it the way I want to tell it.

All I can say is, I am just about done with summer and I cannot wait for it to get over so I can begin with my memories of this past summer. Old boy, what memories I have.

Solomon understood this when he wrote, “Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them” (Ecclesiastes 12:1).

I may be done was summer, but thankfully, God is not done with me. And what memories I have about Him.