Enter Summer

Oh, folks, it's summer.

Maybe you're like, "Well, duh. Where have you been?" And my answer would be, "Well, you know, Illinois." Here in the Great Expanse That Is Chicagoland, summer is later in coming for us than it is for those of you in, say, Tennessee. And believe me, we are rejoicing. Oh, we are rejoicing.

I haven't always dealt with harsh, seemingly never-ending winters of frigid temperatures and icy, slushy snowfalls. I grew up as a P.K. (pastor's kid) in a denomination that tends to produce transient pastors, so my family moved just about every 3 years. By the time I moved to Texas in the middle of the 7th grade, I had already lived in Kansas, Washington state, North Dakota, Wisconsin, and Illinois. I finished out high school in the dusty desert that is West Texas, and by the time winter came during my freshman year of college in Illinois, I had become something of a pansy. I distinctly remember my mother visiting that year and taking me to the mall to buy some Sporto snow boots.  And then a certain someone (who was from Michigan and should have had snow boots in the first place, I must point out) had to go and get some of her own, and we were like twin snow bunnies. 

Anyway, even going to school in Illinois didn't really produce in me a true appreciation for summer, as my folks were then living Kansas City, our home base, so to speak, which can have some of the most humidity-drenched summers I know. I went from brutal cold to icky, sticky heat by just driving a few hours west, and I couldn't truly like or anticipate the arrival of summer. One moment I was in chilly, just-experiencing-spring Illinois, the next--BAM!--it was a summer of misery in Kansas City.

After graduation and our subsequent marriage two weeks later, we moved to Oxford, Mississippi for two and a half years for Stephen's graduate work. Yes, folks, Mississippi. We loved it, but man oh man, did the summers suck. Seriously. They stretched from March to November, and never did we experience the graceful transition from fall to winter or spring to summer. I distinctly remember sunbathing while pregnant with the boys in the beginning of March. I wore shorts and a tank top. I have a great respect for people who live and die in this sort of climate. They seem a sort of hardy breed of sweaty alien to me, people who love to sit on their porches in August in a Harper Lee-esque style and wash away the heat with gallons of sweet tea. 

I digress. Really, that was a huge digression.

When we moved back to Illinois so that Stephen could teach at our alma mater, the seasons fell back into place. My renewed appreciation is probably deeply tied to the fact that we rolled into town the day before New Year's Eve. We moved in during the worst winter Chicago had experienced in 30 years, and we toughed it out like natives. We bought boots and winter coats, learned how to wrap our babies in their car seats, and let the neighbors dig us out when the van got stuck in the snow. Spring didn't raise her sleepy head until well into April, and even then we wore jackets in the evening and covered ourselves with our comforter at night. The first days of full sun and temperature past 65 were a cause for celebration, and we decided we could endure another winter if only for the promise of another summer.

And we're coming upon another summer right now, and it is joyous. It is beautiful. It is worth the days of no sun, the dry air, the ice storm that sent ice-laden limbs crashing mere feet from our family car. The steady rise in temperature has been gradual, and we have patiently waited to plant our garden and play outside.

Now it is officially summer, and we feel comfortable turning on the air conditioning, dressing in t-shirts in the morning, and dragging the wading pool out each afternoon. I slather the kids in sunscreen and swat mosquitoes while my dad grills practically nonstop. My mom and I garage sale with wild abandon, knowing full well how short the season is, and I eagerly anticipate the arrival of my peonies, roses, and lilies. We take long family walks and plan long family car trips to visit far-off places like Nashville and Virginia. Stephen and I put the kids to bed and then sit together on the porch in our wicker chairs, reading and watching the first fireflies flicker in the darkening front yard. And when the fireflies are out, I am ready to declare it summer.

So welcome, summer. We have missed you. We have waited for you with great anticipation, and we are so grateful you are here again. Please stay as long as you can.