Summer had always been a hard time for me. Growing up in Southern California, look, it was hot as balls. And then moving to Louisiana, Jesus. The humidity made it downright unbearable. The only way I could really describe the feeling of going outside in the Louisiana summer was like climbing deep into a vagina. DEEP. But since moving to Vermont, I just can’t believe what I had been missing out on all those 30 years of summers that had come before.

Yes, there were a few things here and there that only happened in summer that I looked forward to, like cherry picking with my dad and then eating so many cherries on the drive home that I just couldn’t possibly eat dinner that night. Or dressing up, in what I actually just call everyday wear now because I just don’t give a fuck about having an “occasion” for it but I digress, to go to the Renaissance Faire, and watch the jousting, and drink mead, and sharing fried ice cream with the wasps in peace. And those times of swimming naked in the river in Texas and stopping to get an up close look at tarantulas crossing the road on the way home.

But, the way of summer, in a cooler climate, is absolutely magical. I look forward to the ripening berries and telling myself, “maybe I’ll make a tart with them” but then just eating them all on my front steps before that could happen because there’s nothing quite like eating sun warmed berries. There’s canoeing to secret coves where the fish try to swim up against your legs in the water. The gathering of sparkling blue stones. The gardening that doesn’t make you want to cry from the heat exhaustion.

It’s just magic.

And now I need to get to work on fixing up the broken yoke on our canoe so we can go swim naked in our secret cove.

*the fish better be respectful 🙃