Summer! Sweet summer! How I mourn your annual passing and delight in your return! As a child growing up in the north, I worshiped summer, not only because it signaled the end of a school year, but because the winters were so long and harsh.
The best part of summer was the moment I first released my imprisoned feet from the confines of shoes and socks so they could finally make contact with the warming earth. To feel soft blades of grass tickling my toes was worth the occasional bee sting or cow-pie bath.
The summers of my childhood in Central New York were characterized by abundant sunshine and ever-present breezes. We farm children ran and played in the pastures and woods from sun-up till dinner time, when Mother would summon us from the back porch with her familiar "Yoo-hoo!"
During summer months, there was no need to watch television. Computers and video games had not been invented yet. Instead, we played games of tree tag, cowboys and Indians, pirate ship, baseball, and myriad games of our own invention. We staged plays in the hayloft and marching parades in the front yard. On rainy or chilly days, we assembled models, played card games and board games, or sang and played the piano for hours at a time.
In the summer, Mother would hang the clean sheets and towels on the clothesline to dry where they absorbed only the best outdoor smells. I loved to bury my nose in the laundry basket and inhale a fragrance even more intoxicating than that of the lilac bushes blooming nearby.
Because I had to wait so long for summer's arrival, I reveled in its every moment. Bidding farewell to summer was akin to an inmate returning to the bonds of prison after three months of glorious freedom.
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