I had lunch this past weekend with friends in Kirkland, enjoying the company and the view of Lake Washington and looking, I imagine, like the resident of Snohomish County that I am, wearing jeans instead of shorts. Everyone else had on shorts. Even the dogs.

Hey. I live in the Puget Sound convergence zone. Things change fast up here. Kirkland people just don’t get it. Walk softly and wear long pants, I always say.
There was a moment, though, when I had a glimmer of something. An insight, an awareness, something. It was fleeting, and of course I was easily distracted (dogs wearing shorts are weird), but there was something that reminded me of something else, just a bit. It took me a few minutes to recognize what it was.

Ah. Summer.

And then it was gone, of course. A cloud passed over the calendar, business as usual, and I was left with the knowledge that solstices don’t matter, that decades of Northwest living have taught me the true nature of things. Summer starts July 12, it always has and it always will. We have a month to go.

I’m a fan of July for many reasons, not just the weather. July is a happy month for me, containing my favorite national holiday, my birthday, and the anniversary of the day I apparently, technically, became a married person (it all happened so fast).

Even the name “July” sounds happy to me. If months were like baseball cards, I’d have all the Julys, sell my Junes on eBay and give my Februarys to unsuspecting stupid people. I’m all for July and happiness.

It’s also the time that my inner history nerd comes out to play, big time. I’m not sure how this passion started, but I know when, more or less. It was the late stages of elementary school, a time when my contemporaries were mostly concerned with the mysteries of changing bodies, the first man on the moon, the breakup of The Beatles, and the Amazing Mets. I was interested, too, but I was also probably the only kid on the block who could converse fairly coherently on the strategic importance and historical influence of the Marquis de Lafayette. I was a big Lafayette guy back then. Thus explaining my amazing popularity.

It’s never left me, either, although I’ve learned some discretion when it comes to socializing and going on about French historical figures (but he was REALLY important). And it’s not like I go to extremes, spending long weekends in Revolutionary War reenactments or wearing powdered wigs. I don’t own a musket or a pair of breeches.
Not anymore, I mean.

But I tend to delve back into the subject this time of year; I’m starting Jack Rakove’s new book, “Revolutionaries,” which should put me in the proper mood come July 4th, a day for me that starts with Sousa and really doesn’t stop until my neighbors get mad. I’ll lose all sense of propriety and start talking to complete strangers about that hot Philadelphia summer in 1776, about Richard Henry Lee rushing back from Virginia with a resolution, about Benjamin Franklin snoozing in the back of the room, about Washington sending desperate requests for more funding and about how probably nobody smelled all that good.

And God forbid some poor grocery store checker is ringing me up and gives a total like $17.83. “Ah, 1783,” I’ll say, “what a fascinating year.” People have been known to quit their jobs.

But that’s July. This is June. I have June stories, too.

And even though this takes place barely a century ago, it seems fitting this week. On June 14, 1777, the Second Continental Congress passed a resolution establishing the Stars and Stripes as our national flag. This date became unofficially Flag Day and then officially in 1916, although we still get mail delivery.

And on June 14, 1908, President Theodore Roosevelt was in Philadelphia, enjoying a meal, when he noticed a man wiping his nose with the American flag. Roosevelt, being vigorous and patriotic and passionate, picked up a stick and started whacking the man with it. Whacked him quite a bit, in fact, before he noticed that what he had perceived as a flag or flag-like object was actually just a blue handkerchief with white stars on it.

Being a decent sort of person, T.R. apologized for his error, his temper and the undeserved whacking.

And then, stating that he was “riled up with national pride,” he whacked him one more time. For good luck or something.

Or maybe he just didn’t approve of people blowing their noses in public, a sentiment I also hold. At any rate, Flag Day is unofficially known as Whack Day in my household, explaining the stick hanging by my front door, but don’t worry. Come July, I’ll have a lot more fascinating stories, including a bunch about Lafayette.

Consider taking a trip out of town, maybe. Use your own judgment about shorts. Be kind to dogs.