There’s a classic short story by Ray Bradbury about a world of children who wait their whole lives to see the sun. Just once every seven years, the rain ends and the rays of the blazing orb push briefly through parting clouds. It’s a big event. Children flock outside to witness the miracle they have only heard about.

“All Summer in a Day” is a chilling story and one with a bitter little twist at the end.

Back in the spring, I prowled the edges of Kennedy Park in Lewiston surveying the downtown. People were out in the breaks between torrents of rain. Young mothers with pale babies, surly teenagers and shifty men glancing over their shoulders every five steps. Sights like these inspire perennial predictions from me, a few cops and bands of seasoned downtown denizens.

“It’s gonna be a lively summer, LaFlamme.”

“Yep. You can feel it, can’t you?”

“Sure can. Look at them. People are everywhere and it’s not even summer yet.”

“Hear that. Lots of new faces from out of town, too. Everyone looks like they’re up to something.”

“Absolutely. I’m betting this is going to be a particularly raucous summer. You’ll have plenty to write about.”

“I’m counting on it. Hey, look out. Here comes an ice cream truck.”

I had these conversations in May. Then again in June. The rain didn’t stop for any significant stretch until July. And when the clouds parted and the world was warmed, all those people were still there.

The problem is, they weren’t doing anything. They pushed strollers. They licked ice cream. They threw footballs back and forth. The shady dudes were still there but they only gathered in tight clusters, bound by downtown gravity, and worked on their struts.

There were a few spells of heat, but temperatures never really soared. It was hot, yes. Hot enough for winter-loving freaks to complain about it inexorably. And every time the thermometer red rose above 80, I’d hear the same prognostications.

“Hot out here. There’s going to be a lot of action.”

“Hear that. Heat really riles people up.”

It doesn’t, you know. Not in Lewiston. Nor does the full moon, a sustained wind or a thunderstorm. And what’s with the thunderstorms around here? Back in my day, we’d get thunder so fierce, it would shake fillings from your teeth. Lightning was so blazing, it would light up the world and rouse bears from hibernation. These days, the skies are more serene, much like the downtown. A lightning storm over Lewiston carries all the drama of silverware dropped on linoleum.

If I had to go back to school (because I adore and respect teachers to no end and so please stop sending pencil shavings and broken crayons to my house), my requisite “What I Did on my Summer Vacation” paper would be lame. It might fill one page, but only if I stretched it and flew off on wild tangents, like I do when a column is falling flat. You know?

On the news front, there was no single event I will recall and forever associate with The Summer of 2006. There was no mayhem of such magnitude that I awoke early for it and stayed late into the night untangling all the gorgeous knots of a complex news story.

There were big stories, but they happened on the periphery. The headlines of summer did not come from downtown Lewiston. They came from towns I’ve only heard of and a few that I have not. If the people who congregate in downtown Lewiston were a baseball team, they would be maybe the Montreal Expos.

You see? You can’t even remember if there is still such a team. You used to hear about them all the time, but where are they now? Likewise, the Lewiston Hoodrats have not had a dazzling season in many, many years, in spite of the rainy-day predictions of spring.

My summer in review: It was all about waiting for the sun and for the Big One to come along. At midnight, I cocked my head toward faraway sirens, ready to dash to the scene of calamity in shorts and sandals. Shirt optional.

Now the season of boots and coats and gawky gloves approaches like a thrill-killing Yeti and I feel like driving through downtown Lewiston and booing the boys of summer. I’m a devoted fan who’s been disappointed one season to many.

And I tell you this: If we don’t make some smart off-season trades, next year will be a bust as well, and I’m not going to even unpack my Lewiston Hoodrats cap. The end.

(Writer’s note: Roughly two minutes after I finished this writing, a monster of a thunderstorm rolled into the area. The first bolt lifted me three feet off the chair and I’m a little freaked out. Please disregard the above comments about sissy storms. I don’t want to die.)

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. He’s been a loyal fan of the Lewiston Hoodrats since 1994.