One of the sometimes-frustrating things about living in this part of the world (besides all of the dumb comments) is that summer is so short. It really only extends from the middle of June through the end of August. If we’re lucky. If we’re not, it can be like this year, when—after a (seemingly) six-month-long Polar vortex, a cold and wet spring, and an extended mosquito season—we’ll be lucky to have two months of truly summery weather.
But that’s what makes it great. Because I can almost not express how giddy I am for summer days like today where its the perfect warm temperature with the perfect amount of clouds and breeze, and where I can just sit on the porch and listen to the wind and the birds and pretty much nothing else because it’s the (relative) “middle of nowhere.”
I realize that there are other places that get more of these days that we do, including some places that probably have this weather all year round. But I kinda like that we don’t get it all time, just because its so wonderful when we do. It feels right that the best summer days come right smack-dab in the middle of summer, not in April or May or November. It’s a fitting apex to the year, that everything after gets better and better, peaking in mid-summer, never allowing the summer and its heat and sun drag on and be unwelcome.
Sure, I had two different conversations today that referenced that fall will be here before we know it. And, sure, I’m excited that my garden has radishes and peas while elsewhere those things are long-gone. I’m just so thrilled to enjoy today while it’s here.