The Summer of Bob

Imagine hearing his voice for the first time. Again.

I don’t know what year it was, but it was the Summer of Bob.

Maybe I was thirteen. My brother and I spent our summers in Maine when we were growing up, and the first few weeks of vacation were always the same grueling chore of mowing the neglected, three-foot grass around our farmhouse with a small, pull-start mower that hadn’t self-propelled for years.

The two albums worked their way deeper and further into the milk crate record collection until they were forgotten entirely. Almost.

It was hot, endless work and it always felt like high noon. My back always hurt, and my hands blistered even with the old gloves, and I hated it. It made the start of every summer a predictable hell when all the other kids were stopping by son their bicycles to find out when we’d be done, which was “never” I’d tell them, looking towards our Maggie’s Farm mother who insisted on the yard work being completed.

But that Summer of Bob, Chris had the idea of moving the living room speakers out on to the back porch…