New Hampshire is one of those places where once you’re in the midst of one season, it’s almost impossible to imagine the opposite one. Weather tends to be extreme here in my home-state, with Alaskan feeling blizzards, ice storms that leave the neighborhood looking like an illustration from a fairy tale, and wind that blows most of the leaves off of the autumn trees in just one day. The summer heat can trap people indoors, or compel them to swim in the freezing cold ocean. But our ocean can get warm. And when it does, the scene at the beach almost resembles Rio.
New Englanders know weather, and talk about it all of the time. You can always tell if a storm is coming because strangers will be chatting it up in the grocery lines. We’ve grown up experiencing the shock of the seasons, and we gloat about our rugged-ness.
But with all of that being said, I am a summer child. Not that I was born in the summer, I leave that to my daughter, but it’s the time of year when I feel most myself. I prefer wearing cut-offs and tanks, dresses with no tights, and never having to worry about socks and coats. I do love the romance of the fall, the magic of the winter, and the newness of spring, but I live for summer–which is why I had never quite imagined staying in New Hampshire (although that has since changed).
With the warmer days getting closer, I feel the longing begin to resonate inside of me. I’m looking forward to those evening walks, dinner and wine on the balcony, weekend trips to the ocean, camping on the lake, my kids running around naked and smelling of coconut oil, and the long, long days.