Summer Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Andee SoRelle
All rights reserved



             Summer Times
           by Andee SoRelle


I truly don't love summer.  What I mean to say, is I despise being hot,
sweaty and do not enjoy dodging insects.  I don't hate what summer
stands for, nor do I whine about beach bunnies and oily muscle men
(though I don't pine after them either.)  I have my memories of good
things about summer; in between being hot and cranky, I know I enjoyed
some of the events, objects, and ideas that define summer.

I can remember being three or four years old and living in Austin, Texas
where it is definitely hot and decidedly humid during the months of
summer.  Our backyard backed up to some undeveloped land, which as such
a tiny child I called a forest, but was probably more of a vacant lot
with a tree or two on it.  The humidity of the area meant that fire
flies congregated there.  I was fascinated.  I would see tiny flashing
lights hovering over the grass and weaving in and out of the bushes.

My mother told me about the lightning bugs and gave me a Mason jar with
a lid poked with holes (so the bugs could breathe of course) and sent me
out into the wild of our backyard. I hunted and caught at least ten of
the glowing insects, put the lid on and took my prize back to my
bedroom.  That night, I lay in bed, not able to sleep, so fascinated was
I by my new "night light."  I must have drifted off finally, only to
wake in the morning and find the majority of my new "friends" could
shine their tiny lights no more.

Years passed and fire flies still seemed the perfect definition of
summer for me.  I always looked for that tell-tale spark in the yard at
nightfall.  Other events and things also cued summer for me.  Like most
carnivorous Americans, the backyard cookout filled my lungs with carbon
and my head with the feeling of that warmest of seasons.

Cookouts define summer mostly in smells and tastes. The smoky smell of
charring meat; the tang of beer spilled on the grass by your tipsy
relatives; the odor of bug spray you drench yourself in hoping to ward
off those giant mosquitoes; the cold flavour of ice tea dispensed from a
ceramic jug.  It is true that food tastes better in the outdoors. I
probably wouldn't feel that way if I lived in the jungles of Borneo and
outdoor food was grubs cooked on a spit; but a plump, grilled hot dog on
a soft store-bought bun is a small bite of heaven.

Summer has its owns smells apart from the barbecue.  The smell of hot
concrete as the day warms to unprecedented highs makes me appreciate my
artificially cooled indoors.  I don't mind summer from the confines of
my house. I like looking out the window, seeing the light that summer
brings as it defines the bright colours of foliage and flowers.  I also
really like knowing that I don't have to be out in that light and heat.

Most of all I believe I can stand summer because it is a season. I like
for the seasons to change, and for my moods to change with them.  Summer
is the time of supposed fun and freedom.  I still carry with me the
attitudes of a school girl, cherishing the moments of summer before fall
takes me back to the responsibilities of school. Yet, now as an adult, I
must work during these summer months and while fall still feels like a
new beginning to me; summer no longer has the smell and taste of being
free.  

I will never applaud the coming of the hottest time of the year. I will
never join in the rejoicing conversations of people who worship time to
play volleyball and frisbee; yet, I do believe I will look at summer in
its details of taste and smell and sight, and I will think of summer
fondly as the days grow brisk in the coming fall.

