There is something so magical that happens between June 20 and September 22. Albeit cliché giving weight to the Instagram captions noting summer wellness in terms of tan lines and frozen beverages—they do have a point. Somewhere amidst the discarded coats and sun-damaged dermis, we evolve into something new, something better. Perhaps new is not the correct word; our summer selves are familiar on the contrary, old friends who vacation most of the year in the Mediterranean or Hawaii. We welcome these nourished bodies with open arms in the spring before mourning their departure in the fall when we bitterly unfold our forgotten winter personalities, collecting dust and decay in the attic.
We pay homage to our perennial summer figures with ornate decorations and indulgent celebrations. Plastic leis drape our necks at sunset barbecues, friendship bracelets and strings of puka shells hang around our wrists and ankles, faded by repetition of sun, water, and salt. We paint our nails, opting for shoes that showcase the sunny hues of pinks and yellow upon our toes. Even our hair adapts to the evolution of warmth, each strand developing into a shinier, golden version of what used to be. Suddenly fruit tastes sweeter, water more refreshing, mornings less daunting. Smiles come with a natural ease and laughter organically bubbles from within because life is just so comically perfect in the summer.
heliophile
noun
he·lio·phile ˈhēlēəˌfīl
plural -s
: one attracted or adapted to sunlight
I’ve been known to refer to myself as a heliophile, a sun lizard if you will. During the summer, or any time the temperature exceeds 60 degrees Fahrenheit rather, I flock to a sun beam. Preferably on a large flat rock, there is truly nothing quite like marinating in the sun. There is no room for anxiety or worry or pain when the world around you is brimming with a palpable yellowy citrus energy. Basking every inch of my Vitamin D deprived anatomy feels somehow refreshing and yes, I understand how messed up that might sound.
How can something so draining feel so nutrifying? As UV rays infiltrate my skin cells, I imagine each of them as unbothered sunbathers, lounging in beach chairs without a care in the world, ushering in the sun and offering it a beer or asking which Sublime song it wants to hear next. And no, before the angry mob arrives, this is not an endorsement of skin cancer. I do use sunscreen and not even just the off-brand $2 mess-up batch from Reny’s that fell off a truck somewhere. As I’m sure was the same for many, I had quite the facial revelation three years ago when I discovered the irreversibility of sunspots upon one’s cheeks and hairline.
Somehow conversations in the sun are better too, as if the humidity creates a kind of truth serum. Vulnerability feels easier to access in the company of others in the heat. Dreams and desires suddenly feel less insane to verbalize given the outrageously beautiful environment around you. There’s a level of gratitude too that intrinsically filters every word uttered. Things feel worth saying and opinions feel meaningful to the eager ears laying on a beach towel next to you.
Of course, summer is not simply sun-drenched spaces and leather-skinned people wandering aimlessly into waterfront patios. For me, summer has significant smells and sounds too, each conjuring up an image of joy and nostalgia so strong I sometimes must be silent for a few minutes in order to process.
petrichor
noun
pe·tri·chor ˈpe-trə-ˌkȯr
: a distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odor that is associated with rainfall especially when following a warm, dry period and that arises from a combination of volatile plant oils and geosmin released from the soil into the air and by ozone carried by downdrafts
I took myself for a short walk to the East End the other day. The morning and early afternoon had been dotted with drizzles and showers. Finally, after I determined that a break in the precipitation would allow for an hour’s dry stroll, I decided to head left out of my apartment. I was sauntering through a crosswalk on the corner of Washington Ave and the bottom of Munjoy Hill when a certain aroma hit my nose, stopping me in my tracks. Something about the warm, wet, asphalt after a brief yet heavy rain brought me back to a nine-year-old state that I hadn’t accessed in quite some time.
I’m transported to a rainy summer day on my freshly paved driveway in Cornish. I’m wearing a yellow T-shirt from Justice and denim shorts (Bermuda-length of course). My clothes are plastered to my stomach and thighs from the gluey rainwater and I can feel the squish of water beneath the balls of my feet as I take turns pressing weight into my left sneaker then the right. The trees in my yard look greener than usual, the tar darker. It smells fresh, like lawnmower trimmings had been blended up with the liquid from a puddle to make nature’s smoothie. I can see the Jamba Juice ad campaign for the drink in my mind: “Taste the rain with buy-one-get-one 24oz Mother Nature™ smoothies this Earth Day!”
I loved this smell, as if a million worms had simultaneously exhaled a comforting breath, wrapping each of my olfactory receptors in the earth’s musk. Okay maybe I lost you on that one, but I promise it’s a good smell.
The science behind why we develop these insane smelling superpowers after a downpour actually comes down to compounds and bacteria within the air interacting with water from the sky. As it turns out, these earthy-scented compounds such as plant oils, geosmin, and ozone happen to be quite sensitive to the human nose, and when it rains, they become activated, seasoning the atmosphere in a universal bottle of the world’s most satisfying perfume.
schmaltz
noun
ˈshmälts
: extremely or excessively sentimental
The sensations of summer would not be complete without the taste it leaves in one’s mouth. Mealtime during June, July, and August goes far beyond calorie consumption and satiating hunger, it’s about connecting our tastebuds to a memory, hunger with satisfaction—craving with fulfillment. Food has been long believed to have a strong connotation with emotion. There’s a reason we crave chicken noodle soup while sick or a slice of cake on our birthday (at least for most of us, I’m aware of the dessert-haters out there although I wholeheartedly disagree with their lifestyles). For me, eating during the summer is as much about the setting as it is the flavor. A melty peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s been crammed into the corner of my tote bag all day eaten upon a picnic table in June somehow tastes better than a filet mignon does in an air-conditioned dining room. The freedom of indulging in something as mundane as chewing and swallowing feels so luxurious when the confines of a kitchen table or the front seat of a car are broken. The definition of a dining area becomes meaningless when the weather improves. Everything from a kayak to a beach towel, to the grass in your backyard suddenly joins in the running for dining vessel qualifications.
This isn’t to say there aren’t certain morsels individual to each of us that evokes a memory on its own. Summer schmaltz. Watermelon will forever remind me of lunch buffets at the Fourth of July, juice dribbling down my jowl and into a puddle of sugar water in the dirt below, soon to be infested with ants. Red hot dogs, cracked down the middle with a blackened outline of delectable char that audibly snaps as I bite through the processed meat wrapped in a toasty, buttered, bun. Corn on the cob, spun slowly by hand atop a softened stick of butter before a shower of flaky salt signifies its heavy, unbalanced placement on the corner of my paper plate. I will dig at the kernels stuck between my teeth until I eventually forget about them at the promise of dessert. And then there is dessert, sweet, sweet dessert, which can take many different forms throughout the summer. It could be a s’more, in my case a blackened marshmallow sandwiched between two slightly stale Nabisco™ graham crackers and three squares of Hershey’s™ chocolate, no more, no less. It tastes of smoke, refined caramelized sugar, and as my father lovingly says, another.
Summer sweet treats also taste like strawberry soft serve from Red’s Dairy Freeze in South Portland. The limited-edition custard is churned with real handpicked Maine strawberries. Combined with fresh milk and sugar, it isn’t to be missed. It sells out in hours, served to lengthy lines of hungry customers over the course of a week or two, sometimes not at all when the strawberry season isn’t up to par. For me, August sweetness is a birthday cake baked by my mother, something simple according to her: a light airy yellow cake filled with moisture and an explosion of vanilla bean and hints of almond. The frosting is a whipped cream, perfectly peaked, never over or under-whisked, and dotted with a winding pattern of raspberries, blackberries, or blueberries—whatever “looked best” at Hannaford. I devour a massive slice and finish one of my sister’s leftovers after declaring myself full of whichever grilled meat, potato, and vegetable was on the menu for birthday dinner.
It's interesting to see the perception of Maine to those who know it only during the summer. Tourists who visit only a small section of the coast for two percent of the year must be stuck in this all-too-perfect image of the state. Maine’s likeness is relegated to one of postcards: a jagged cliffside against blue skies, a lobster roll in an outstretched hand against the backdrop of a lighthouse, a packed beach with a ferris wheel on the horizon. It’s as if all Mainers are known for is eating lobster, picking blueberries, and fishing in the sun. I imagine visitors oohing and ahhing at the ugly brown snow lining Portland’s sidewalks in January or the three feet of water flooding Farmington’s Main Street in December. The truth is Maine is not all that aesthetic for about eight months of the year. But alas, life isn’t about constant aesthetic, that’s for vacationers and social media profiles.
A summer in Maine can only be genuinely appreciated by those who know its alternative, those who see it in all forms, including its lowest. The most rewarding wins follow the deepest losses, and that’s really how the season we anticipate all year feels to me. The day you feel comfortable outside in Maine, that’s when the snow shoveling, the waking up an hour early to start your car, the frozen pipes, the vitamin deficiency, the dull skin, the boredom, all becomes… worth it.
We’re in it now people, the best time of the year in the best state of all. Dog days are almost here.
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