Last week we had a freak hot spell, and even though we’ve since returned to sweaters and soup it put the taste of summer on my tongue. With the prospect of long days and warm nights ahead, The Boy and I have turned our attention to the yard.
After our wedding, I knew for a fact that I wanted to plant dahlias the next season. I ordered the tubers from a local supplier, and man, can you say “ugly duckling”? Pretty incredible that such gorgeous flowers come from such hard and knobbly little potatoes, huh? But to me dahlias are pure summer, and that’s how summer goes, right? In the depths of winter, with all that cold, hard, gray, you think the days of green and sunshine will never arrive. But they always do.
There’s a quote that I love, though I have no idea where I heard it: “Summertime is always the best of what might be.” Google tells me it’s by Charles Bowden. Whatever its origin, those words have always resonated with me. School children and old folk alike wait and pray all year for it to come around, begging to be released from the bitter ice and solitude of winter. We spend a whole year daydreaming of the far off lands we’ll visit, and strange people we’ll meet, and wild adventures we’ll have, and even when the season finally rolls around, containing no more excitement than a run-around in the sprinkles, a cherry popsicle, and the occasional afternoon thunderstorm, it somehow does not disappoint. No matter how ordinary, no matter how stiflingly hot, summer always seems to carry with it the electric promise of freedom.
It was 90 degrees here a few days ago — definitely not ordinary spring weather in Portland. As we lay sweating side-by-side in bed that night, The Boy was finally inspired to fix the stuck window in our bedroom. With a decisive crack of his fist, he finally got the damn thing open, and it was such sweet instantaneous relief to feel that warm night breeze on my skin.
It was still too hot for cuddling though, so we held hands in bed instead, and it felt so nice that I started thinking of the summertime, and all the good things that have happened to me in summers past, and all the wonder that’s waiting to come. I kissed him for the very first time on the second to last day of summer, two days before school was due to start, the year I turned sixteen. I married him eight years minus a few weeks later, on a sweltering day at my favorite place in the world. I’ll be visiting my baby sister in Israel this June, which is so surreal I can hardly even wrap my mind around it. And sometime in July, we’ll be heading back home to return to our very favorite music festival (the site of our “honeymoon”) for the sixth year in a row. I love New England in the summer, and I’m so excited to go back and see all our family and friends, but it makes me a little sad to think of a certain house and a certain yard that we won’t be visiting this time around. It’s a foreign notion to me; I’ve never gone home and not been in that house. I don’t know yet how it’ll make me feel but, after all, that is the magic of summer: you never know what she’ll bring.
Oh, and if you have a few seconds, go check out our wedding photographer’s gorgeous new website, designed by the one and only Boy. And, since wedding season is coming up and I know someone out there must be looking , I’ll just say one more time that Katch was an absolute dream to work with.