We are in the midst of a very warm spell. Our heat index reached 116 today. JOY!!! So, some of what I've written is a bit of an exaggeration in the first paragraph. Alas. The idea is still the same.
The hotter the better, I say. Heat, humidity, sun. Bring it on. I never realized I was such a summer junkie until I moved to Minnesota. Minnesota summers taunt and tease. They pretend. They flirt with heat and humidity. They do not, in any way, resemble the real thing. Instead, they are a brief respite between one winter and the next, a respite of warmer, mild days that do not make up for the negative temperatures, brutal winds, and frozen lakes.
In Minnesota I have to defend my appreciation of summer, my obsession with sweltering temperatures, sweat, and stuffy days. I long for them; I crave them. And everyone around me wonders if I should be in a padded cell.
Summer days are, however, more than heat and humidity. They are hours at the swimming pool—swimming laps, learning how to dive, avoiding squirt guns, and whining about adult swims. They are sleeping with the windows open before we had air conditioning, listening to the rain on the awnings, the soft breeze ruffling the Laura Ashley curtains. They are mom in the garden, digging up plants and moving them, watering flowers to encourage them to grow, me reading to her as she moved from place to place in the garden to work. They are evenings on the deck, grilling out, fetching beer for family, barking dogs, and fighting over the hammock. They are catching lightning bugs with the neighborhood kids and looking for locust shells with dad. They are reading, reading, reading.
Summer days are the purest form of happiness.