On the next to last day of the school year I noticed mothers walking to Adams Elementary while I was deadheading rhododendrons in front of my house. I'd seen on a sign on the ever-informative reader board about an awards assembly at 9:30 a.m. I brushed off sticky, spent blooms, put my camera in my pocket, went down the street and slipped into the cafeteria/auditorium. The room was already hot with the excitement at least 500 people facing the front. The students were seated on the floor in ascending size, with parents, siblings and teachers ringing the outside.

Others may watch movies or plays for their range of emotions but school assemblies will always be my first choice. I love watching the personalities. The swagger of certain children on their way to shake a teacher's hand; the shy hunch of others. A boy with a Mohawk haircut that looked like the ridged back of a dinosaur, the mass of children standing in recognition of their perfect attendance. A very small girl named Daisy had read over a million words. How can anyone resist a room of children who believe in the thousand possibilities of summer?

I stayed on the sidelines listening for neighborhood names, watching for familiar faces. Like someone who attends the funerals of strangers I became caught up in the heartfelt accolades for students who were always kind to one another and tried their very best every single day. I took a photo when the neighbor girl received the Principal's Award in her fourth grade classroom; glad that I was there because her mother arrived one minute too late. I wiped my eyes during the tribute to Coach Lee Wolverton, retiring after a lifetime of teaching; the last 18 years at Adams School.

A neighbor spotted me and looked momentarily puzzled. Is it a problem if I haven't outgrown elementary school assemblies, even though my daughter has? My child has been replaced by the young woman who can drive away in our car. It occurred to me that the teacher's retirement mirrors my own somewhat; although he's leaving the school system and in my case it is just my daughter leaving me for adulthood.

Parents sometimes complain at the end of the school year but I loved summers when my daughter was young. It was possible to leave the house in the morning and not return until dinnertime, with hours of light remaining even then. We did errands near and far, sat on every couch in Ikea, ate samples at Costco. We could spend an entire day at the Locks. We had evening picnics at Webster Park, once watching teenagers try to dislodge a trapped shoe from a tree, losing evermore objects to the tree itself. My daughter and her best friend spent hours in their own land, even though I could see them high in the spruce tree at the back of the yard. They made houses for fairies and exposed fossils by hammering apart rocks in the garden.

There were bicycle rides along the Burke Gilman with cinnamon rolls at the turning around point. Swim lessons at Pop Mounger Pool and fresh lime juice stirred with sugar and sparkling soda. On the 4th of July there was always the Kid's Parade and Talent Show on our block, followed by the unsanctioned water fight. Fireworks watched from the second story of a neighbor's house and then more marshmallows toasted before the holiday officially ended and the street was returned to cars.

As a babysitter and camp assistant my daughter will still be experiencing a child's summer. Just not with me. She'll manage to get three children into shoes and onto an assortment of bicycles and wagons to make the three-block trek to Webster Park. She'll hose down kids after popsicles and teach them to work with clay. She'll trick children into closing their eyes to sleep even though the sky is the azure blue that makes one want to stay outside all night like cats on warm sidewalks.

Looking every inch the coach with wide shoulders, short pants, polo shirt, sneakers and a whistle, Mr. Wolverton struggled against an emotional moment as a PTA member presented him an enormous fake $400 check. "We took up a little collection," she said, "because if you're going to go exploring in your RV you're going to need money for gas." Even before the gift, Coach Wolverton had pronounced that Adams Elementary was "probably the best school I've ever been in, and I've been in many." With multiple classrooms per grade, not all teachers work with all students, unless, like Mr. Wolverton, they are teaching physical education.

I slipped out of the cafeteria just before the students were dismissed. There was a final round of applause behind me and the buzz of 385 students released from sitting on a cafeteria floor, less than eight hours remaining between them and summer vacation. Mr. Wolverton's final words resounded with me. "Thank you," he said to the principal, teachers, students and parents.

"Thank you for 18 good years."

Peggy Sturdivant writes a series on neighborhoods for CrossCut.com and also writes additional pieces for the Seattle PI's Neighborhood Webtown: http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/ballard/. Her email is atlargeinballard@yahoo.com