It's Good To See You Again, Old Friend

It hasn't been like anything I really thought it would be.


Summer has it's own personality--it's unpredictable. Not that the other seasons don't have their own, shall we say, flare. But compared to summer, they're just...blahn. They're the business casual to summer's sear sucker suit.

Think about it.

Fall is the lull between hot and cold that is made better with the start of football season. It's that period where the summer high gives way to the winter depression. It's coming (or "fall"ing) off that 4 month buzz, where you have to deny yourself your fixes of extended weekends, grill outs, and lazy camping trips. And it gets cold. Most of us are jolted out of bed one late October night as the frost, having crept into the bedroom, slips its hands around our necks, leaving us gasping for air and wondering, while in our favorite college sweaters, where the warm weather went and when the crisp air took root in the middle of the room.


And then there's winter. We always know that winter is going to be long, dreary, and cold. The snow is beautiful and snowboarding is great, but what about the other 140 days of the winter that it doesn't snow or that we're not on the slopes? You know, the days when it's a rain/snow mix, or when the snow is black, brown, and slushy with about a gallon of salt on the bottom layer. Ya, not so pretty is it? And it's so predictable. We can always count on the fact that Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, and Valentine's Day will be there like a lighted runway, guiding us to spring.



But spring, too, has its own set of "same old same old." There will be feaux summer days where, at the first sight of the sun and 50 degree weather, we all run outside with barely anything on, as if to entice the summer with our white, pasty bodies. We use our pale chests as a signaling mirror, begging that big, orange ball of gas to resuce us from the deserted island of winter. Yet, like clockwork, the sun seems to miss every sign we send it, retreating to its clouded cave, grounded and beaten by north winds and aggressive rains. Just think, when's the last time you saw the "lamb" part of March? Here in Wisconsin, "March goes in like a lion, and out like freaking pit bull."


But what do all these seasons have in common?


Simple: none of them are summer.


Summer.


I'm sure your mind was just flooded with about 1,000 perfect snapshots of past times, moments, vacations, and people that bring a smile to your face. Your skin actually got a little more rosy, as your hair felt the rays of a perfect July sunset. In fact, I bet your nose, for an instant, stood at attention as it smelled the freshly cut grass and the blooming wildflowers, or even the burning firewood and bug spray. You heard the whirlings of boat engines on the lake, the chirps of finches and robins, and you almost turned you head to see where that child's laugh came from. Summer is just, well, right. It's life at it's fullest. The plants aren't becoming, was, or dead, they are. The fish aren't squeezing out every last bit of life to try and get upstream just to die a few days later, instead, they are growing, thriving, living. Look around. I know you've noticed it. From Memorial Day through Labor Day, people around you seem happier, lighter, and tanner (especially us Northerners). Even summer yard work is not really work. It's this hybrid of work and pleasure, where the reward is a cold glass of lemonade and a beautiful garden, not a bad back and frostbitten toes. Summer is right.


But how is it that one season can seem so much better than all the others?


I'm sure I've had a bad summer somewhere, sometime, with someone. In fact, now that I think of it, I've had a lot of crappy things happen to me during this great season we call summer. Even this current summer has not been purely roses. But still, I know that in 5 years, when I look back on this solstace, I'll swear it was a great one. I'll paint images of perfect nights spent at the baseball diamond, calling balls and strikes for 9 year olds. I'll recall the sunrises over Lake Michigan, even though I never witnessed one. I might even put this in my top five ever, right behind the summer of '05 (the perfect summer). And I think I've figured out why.


We idolize summer because we remember the ideal, the good, the perfect. Summer is ideal, good, and perfect. I know I've had horrible summers, but I can't really justify punishing a whole 120 days for the wrongs of a couple instances. I can't categorize an entire season as horrible; to do that would be to deny the good, the ideal, and the perfect.


Maybe I should be a little more accepting. Maybe my argument should apply to all seasons. But for whatever reason, it doesn't. Just like I can't explain why there's a natural awe and beauty that requires all to be captivated by solar flares, mountain scenes, or the birth of a human, I can't fully explain why summer is the best of all seasons. Maybe I just have this love affair with summer that I can't deny. I don't know.


But think about this: summer.


Remember all the images, smells, and sounds that come to you earlier? You don't get that with fall, spring, or winter.