Summer can, of course, be boiled down to simple facts; distilled to a scientific certainty. For instance:
In the United States and the rest of the northern hemisphere, the first day of the summer season is the day of the year when the Sun is farthest north (on June 20th or 21st). This day is known as the Summer Solstice.
But that’s not what you love about summer. That’s not what you remember about the summers of your youth. No, you remember, hot nights cold beer, an empty parking lot, everything dark save for the glow of dashboard lights.
You remember the drive-ins of your youth and those girls who keep walking by pretending that they don’t notice you. The effort they make to ignore you and your friends almost matches the effort you make to ignore them…..
A river. Canoes and beer. A swimming hole, snakes. A broken two lane highway next to a gravel pit with an old railroad trestle running over river. Sitting high up on the bridge drinking when the Cardinal came by a fifty miles an hour…….
Summer camp. The woods, the like, the quiet of the night. More than anything I remember summer camp where I met the love of my life. Love at first sight- who knew that such a thing existed? We met and then thirty years slid by….
Summer has always been the stuff of wistful dreams, fodder for writers, poets and photographers alike. Here, then, a collection of images and words to celebrate the season of love, of sloth, of endless possibility.
Farther in summer than the birds,
Pathetic from the grass,
A minor nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.
Emily Dickinson- insects
“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.” F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Summer involves going down as a steep flight of steps
To a narrow ledge over the water. Is this it, then,
This iron comfort, these reasonable taboos,
Or did you mean it when you stopped? And the face
Resembles yours, the one reflected in the water.
“I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days – three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.” John Keats, Bright Star: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne
“Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language― Henry James
“Summertime is always the best of what might be.” Charles Bowden
“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.”
―Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting