While reading a passage from an old classic last night, the main character of the book gives a brief description of what summer “is” in her little Southern town.

It got me thinking about what summer “was”, for me, in my Maine town when I was a kid.

Summer was running barefoot through puddles left by a strong rainstorm that briefly darkened my world with ominous clouds.

It was spending my ten cents allowance that I earned wiping dishes every night, on a root beer Popsicle or an orange creamsicle when the ice cream truck rolled through our neighborhood.

It was childhood games like hopscotch and double-dutch and red hot jump rope played at least once a day, every day. Summer meant staying out late at the Trefethren’s house playing One, Two, Three, Red Light until there was no light left to see.

It was climbing in the back of the family Rambler station wagon in our p.j.’s and heading to the drive-in to watch a Disney movie while resting our heads on pillows from home.  Ma would attach the speaker to the car window and light the bug repellent coil and place it on the front dashboard.  The coil worked pretty well, but we still would end up scratching one or two bites all night long and even calamine lotion would offer no relief.

It was joining my mother at her nightly perch to observe life on the corner of Cole Street and Woodlawn Avenue.  We lived in a cape and it had two second story windows on either end of the house.  One was in my brother’s room (where the watch tower was) and the other was in the room I shared with my sister.  Our window opened up to a flat deck which was the porch roof. On those clear and golden summer days, it was a great place to spy on the next door neighbors, or lay in the sun with a good Nancy Drew. 

It was potato salad, watermelon, hot dogs, and whoopie pies.  It was circulating fans that whirred hot air, watching baseball games at the American Legion field down the street, picking cockleburs out of our cat's fur, and drinking in every last dog day of summer, wishing it were June all over again.