According to the Old Farmer’s Almanac, the term Dog Days of Summer has been used since the days of ancient Greece and Rome. It was believed that they represented a time of drought, bad luck, and unrest, when both dogs and men could be driven out of their minds by extreme heat.

That is something I can relate to.

Once the temperature hits the mid-90s I enter an entirely new sphere of annoyance. I don’t know who invented air conditioning, but he or she has to be among the greatest people who ever lived. I told my wife that if I have any control over the temperature in the next life, she should pack a sweater and brace herself for the low to mid 60s.

Today, the phrase is used to describe summer’s peak days of heat and humidity and most often refers to the dates of July 3rd through August 11th . The timing coincides with the rising of Sirius, the Dog Star, not to be confused with Sirius, the XM Radio.

I have most often heard the phrase associated with the transcendent game of baseball. In a Sports Illustrated article by Stephen Cannella (Aug. 20, 2001, p 61), he described them as coming later in August and being “The time of year when the weather is hot, the body tired and, for the handful of teams that aren’t close to the wild card, the games meaningless.”

That same time of year has always meant the end of summer, a time I dreaded as a child and now begrudge as a father. While many parents rejoice at the start of each school year, I have always enjoyed having the kids out for the summer and seen it as a time to enjoy the free, less-scheduled time to explore, recreate, and create memories together.

Despite the oppressive heat and the aisles of back-to-school supplies trying to dampen my spirits, family adventures and traditions, not to mention the especially engaging and unique personalities of family members, transformed those Dog Days of Summer into the golden days of yore.

August was highlighted by the birthdays of both may dad and grandfather and culminated with a Labor Day weekend camping trip where the air hinted at the cool, crisp coming of Autumn. It was the last hurrah of the summer season and my dad and his brothers made it something wonderful.

My dad’s oldest brother, Neldon, was born in Sunnyside, Utah, the first of many coal mining towns that my grandparents lived in. When I think of my Uncle Neldon, the words class and smooth come to mind. Everything from the cars he drove to the clothes he wore screamed presence. His ranch-style home on Salt Lake City’s east bench was pure style complete with a Tiffany style dining table chandelier, living room and kitchen facing fireplace, and dark woods.

And to this day, I still can hear the clicking sounds of men’s dress shoes on his perfectly shined parquet-patterned hardwood floor.

Of all his cars, my favorite was his 1967 Buick station wagon. A cream-colored beauty with side paneling, it was topped off with spinners at the center of each hub cap that bore the three shields of red, white, and blue, Buick’s timeless logo. I remember a particular family vacation when I rode in that classic station wagon.

I stared in awe as he drove a smooth 75 miles per hour down the highway with his sunglasses on and his elbow resting on the open window. When I asked what a particular song was on the radio, he told me it was called “Wave” by Antonio Carlos Jobim.

From that moment on, I was a fan of the Brazilian bossa nova sound. If you ever want to feel cool, hit the road at 75 miles per hour and pop in Jobim’s “Wave.” I assure you; the sound will stir the vibe within you.

The second brother was my Uncle Bert. He was born in Vernal, Utah when my grandpa took a break from the mines to tend sheep with his brother-in-law and run a hot dog stand. I must tip my hat to Grandpa Williams.

If I were to tend sheep the flock would most likely turn on me due to intolerance. I would also fail at the hot dog stand, mainly because I would eat the inventory.

Anyway, back to Uncle Bert. The man was a natural athlete. My dad said every sport he picked up he played as if he had been at it forever. Football, baseball, tennis, he played them all. The man was a natural.

Of my many memories of him, one of them is attached to the great game of golf. Every year in June, the whole family would pack up our campers and trailers and head to Wasatch State Park in Midway, Utah for 36 holes of golf in two days, swimming, and Dutch Oven and fireside cooking. At the time, Wasatch consisted of three nine-hole courses – the Mountain, the Canyon, and the Lake.

The first morning would always find us starting on the “Mountain Nine” and when I say mountain, I mean it in the most literal sense. I was somewhat fine until we hit the seventh hole, which was the highest point of the whole 36 holes.

While the view of Heber Valley in the morning sunlight was incredible, the slope of the fairway in that same direction was a killer. I could have stood with my back to it and teed off toward Salt Lake and still hit a low liner that would wind up on the sixth fairway coming back in the other direction.

The best part of the morning was watching Uncle Bert tee off at the first hole. Despite his picturesque swing, a war wound and a bad hip resulted in the occasional slice.

However, always at the ready, he could rip off a slice to the wooded out of bounds area to the right and before our gaze turned from the ball back to him, he had already pulled a ball from his pocket, placed it on the tee, and was in the middle of his backswing. He was poetry in motion.

While I’m on the subject of golf, I’ll move to my Uncle Burnell. My Dad’s sole younger brother, they were the last two at home. They shared a room and had a tradition of putting their extra change on the dresser each night into a pile for either one to use for dates. From my youngest memories, he called me by the Spanish pronunciation of my name. Every greeting was an enthusiastic “Well, hello Pablo!”

One of my Uncle Burnell’s greatest qualities was his knack for impeccability. From the top of his masterfully sculpted hair to the bottom of his perfectly shined shoes, everything was done right.

Included in this world was his yard. Every time I looked at his front lawn, I was never sure if he had mowed it or vacuumed it.

All I know is that it’s perfectly hued green grass stirred in me the desire to grab a driver, tee up a Titleist, and knock that baby over the two houses and side street that separated their house form the expansive park-like lawn behind the church house. I was sure that oasis of green would correct all the imperfections in my swing.

He was also the best cook in the world without ever cooking. Whenever I slept over with my cousin Todd on a night that Aunt Linda was working, Todd and I knew we were eating out. As with my dad’s other brothers, Uncle Burnell had a heart of gold. During a trip to a souvenir store when my dad wasn’t there, I walked out with whatever he had bought Todd.

I guess that is the point of my ramblings. My uncles, on both sides of my family, were highly influential in my life. They were father figures who loved me, encouraged me, and had my best interest at heart. Fatherhood comes in many ways and in different stages of life. In the first phase we eagerly await the birth of our first child.

Then we move through the various phases with our children, trying to keep up and savor the moments as they seem to rocket through time. Then, one day, we are on the edge of becoming grandparents – fathers to our children who are becoming parents themselves. There are some who, due to various circumstances, may never know the phases of actual fatherhood.

However, even they have a role to play as uncle, mentor, or friend. And in future blogs I look forward to looking deeper at these stages and the opportunities and challenges each one brings.

Wherever you are on your journey, remember; much of August is still in front of us. And Labor Day weekend brings opportunities for camping and small-town festivals. We all have roles to play, wisdom to share, memories to make, and love to give. Take the time. And remember, the Dog Days of Summer don’t last forever.

Read more stories like this and learn valuable lessons from the book Fatherhood: The Role of a Lifetime. Available now on Amazon!