The Best Parts of Summer

Every morning begins about the same way.

Before the computer gets turned on for writing, but after the bed is made, you'll usually find me outside with a cup of tea in one hand, wandering toward my tiny salsa garden. It's become a bit of a summer ritual. I go out there early because something magical always happens overnight, and it’s a glorious way to start my day.

A tomato that was stubbornly green yesterday is beginning to blush. The jalapeños seem a little plumper. Some cilantro is ready to be picked before it decides it's finished with summer altogether (it can be a bit moody). The garlic reminds me that good things take their time.

I've always loved gardening, but somewhere along the way I stopped worrying about growing everything and preserved my energy for our favorites. Tomatoes, cilantro, peppers and garlic. That's enough to make fresh salsa, which is without a doubt our family favorite. There is something deeply satisfying about carrying vegetables straight from the garden into the kitchen. They don't just taste fresher; they carry the quiet satisfaction of knowing exactly where they came from and how they got there.

As I've grown older, I've noticed something else.

Summer isn't the same everywhere.

Growing up and living in Arizona for most of my life, I found summer had its own personality. The divine scent after a monsoon rain. The hummingbirds that have unending energy and entertainment. Early mornings and late evenings outside because it was the only time the heat was tolerable. By the time August rolled around, though, I was more than ready for fall. And that might be why Autumn has always had a special place in my heart.

Then life carried me somewhere completely different.

When I moved to Washington, I don't think I ever stopped being amazed by the green. Everywhere I looked, something was blooming. Gardens overflowed with colorful flowers I had never seen growing so effortlessly. Trees stretched forever into the sky. Even after three years, I never lost that feeling of wondering how one place could hold so much life.

Some of my favorite afternoons were spent sitting on the deck beside the sea, watching skilled seabirds dive for fish, seals popping up as if checking on us, sea otters playing like kids on the dock, deer wandering through, and the occasional raccoon sneaking around like bandits. We simply sat there in awe, grateful to witness it.

Now we're writing a new chapter in Montana, and this is our very first summer here.

With highs usually not exceeding the 80s, Harold, Lou, and I have settled into a routine of walks… often along the Missouri River. Lou, our Brittany, believes every rabbit must have his full attention.  Fortunately for old Lou and his hips, he’s on a leash and can’t go far, as Harold and I keep walking the trail.

The river has introduced us to bald eagles soaring overhead, hawks patiently circling, ducks and geese paddling through the current, beavers quietly slipping into the water and, much to my surprise, two pelicans gliding on the river like it was the California coast.

We've heard that if we head out into the countryside in the wee hours of the morning, we'll likely see even more wildlife… bears, elk, foxes, and moose. That’s on our short list, and I know one morning soon we'll pack a thermos of coffee, point the car toward the open prairie and simply see what decides to cross our path. That sounds like a wonderful day to me.

Nature has always been one of the places where I feel immense joy.

Maybe that's why one of my favorite parts of summer has very little to do with my own plans. I also love watching other people enjoy it.

There is something about looking out the window and seeing children chasing each other through a yard, families taking evening walks, teenagers gathered in a driveway laughing about something funny, baseball games filling the local parks, and neighbors lingering outside just because the evening is too beautiful to waste indoors.

The whole world seems to slow a bit and feel a little lighter.

I suppose educators never completely lose their relationship with summer. Even though I'm retired now, part of me still feels that familiar sense of spaciousness. There’s more room for reading. A little more time for gardening. A little less urgency. Harold and I have even been known to pull out the cornhole boards and enjoy a little friendly competition well into the still-sunlit night.

Summer also tastes different... thanks to the Farmers' Markets.

Peaches that have to be eaten over the kitchen sink because the juice runs down your hands no matter how careful you are. Sweet strawberries. Blueberries by the handful. Watermelon cold from the refrigerator after a warm afternoon outside.

Simple things.

Wonderful things.

My niece Taylor experiences summer in a way that makes me smile. She's happiest exploring. Hiking another trail, rafting another river, discovering another hidden corner of the Pacific Northwest. Watching her reminds me that no two people experience a season quite the same way.

And I think that's exactly the way it's supposed to be.

The older I get, the more I realize I've been collecting summers.

Arizona gave me one version.

Washington gave me another.

Now Montana is introducing me to one I haven't known before.

Each place has offered its own beauty, its own rhythms and its own reasons to step outside and pay attention.

Before long, the tomatoes will disappear. The leaves will begin thinking about autumn. The days will cool, and another season will quietly take its place.

But not today.

Today there are tomatoes almost ready to pick, peaches waiting on the counter, a book with my bookmark tucked somewhere near the middle, and a river trail that Harold, Lou and I will probably walk before the day is over.

Somewhere overhead an eagle will likely catch the wind. If I'm paying attention, I'll notice. And I've come to believe that's one of the greatest gifts summer has to offer.

Love is ALL there is,

Diana