With the United States semi-quincentennial occurring July 4, 2026, I remember my mother, Polly, and my Aunt Lucy at the bicentennial parade in 1976. My mom and aunt were sisters-in-law, best friends, and they also shared a birthday. They loved to dress up—in party clothes or costumes—dance, parade, play practical joke, and tell stories.
They were also fanatically neat. They paid me a visit one fine July day.
Aunt Lucy and Mother Surprise Me with a Visit
I dash frantic room to room
spread a bed, pick up toys,
kick dog bones into corners.
Before I can change my rumpled shirt
or brush my hair,
the dervishes rush the door.
Mother straightens every painting
in her path. Aunt Lucy arranges
knick-knacks on the mantle.
Mother suggests I fold laundry
as I go. Lucy says to try
some Mop and Glo. They’d
love to put my house in order
if they just had time to loiter.
Outside, the dogs drag trash across
the lawn. Of course, they see this
through my smudgy kitchen window.
I plop a can of tuna in a bowl,
whack celery, onion, pickle
to a furious fine mince, finish
with a squirt of mustard,
glop of mayo, and rip open a bag
of chips and call it lunch.
They eat. They split a Coke.
Then, out they whirl
as quickly as they came.
On the porch, kisses, quick goodbyes.
Then Mother runs her thumb
hard down my spine,
her wordless gesture says it all:
straighten up, young lady, it’s past time.
—Donna Hilbert, from Gravity: New & Selected Poems
I remember the awful dread I had as a kid, of going back to school after a summer of climbing trees, swimming, and reading books for fun. Grown up, and working a job that I hated, I got that sickening dread again on Sunday afternoons knowing what lay ahead on Monday morning. My friend, poet Tamara Madison, calls July the Saturday of summer because it can be enjoyed without worrying about summer’s end. Here is an excerpt from her poem “Summer,” first published in Verse-Virtual:
July, then, is Saturday:
brown-limbed, easy, moving slow
through the long hours
of sand, of fish lifted
by clear waves with the light
shining through, of warm
nights with Mars glowing gold
near the rocking moon.
—Tamara Madison, excerpted from “Summer”
From Wisconsin poet Annette Langlois Grunseth:
Summer Nights
Crickets chirp as dusk unfolds,
evening cool, the heat lets go.
A breeze appears, ever so slight
to calm me in the fading light.
I lie across the foot of my bed
window open, I rest my head.
On the sill, my stage to the sky,
a beacon turns at the airport nearby,
signals planes to touch down on land.
Green turns to white with each light band.
I watch the light with every sweep,
green … white … green … til I lift off to sleep.
—Annette Langlois Grunseth, from the newly released Summer Days at the Five and Dime (Elm Grove Press, 2026)
Your Turn
When I was a kid growing up in California’s San Fernando Valley, I spent my summer days riding my bike from one end of the valley to the other. My parents both worked and didn’t always know how many miles I traveled on two wheels. I also did lots of walking—to the library and the public pool.
What are your memories from the July’s of your childhood? What are your July’s like now?
Post and post images by Donna Hilbert. Featured image by Mark 高維隆, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Full poems used with permission.
- Poet Laura: One Fine July Day - July 8, 2026
- Poet Laura: Going Fishing with Dad - June 10, 2026
- Poet Laura: Mother in Satin - May 6, 2026
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