Whenever I return home to the United States in the summer, I begin a long walk down a memory road of summers. Being a sensual person, this walk involves all 5 senses and usually begins with some mouthwatering summer food memories.
My mother's barbecue ribs, a true American indulgence, caramelized, savory and finger licking good reminding me always of how food is so much better when you can eat with your hands. Being anywhere between the ages of 5 and 15 sitting around eating piece by piece of watermelon, smiles glued to our faces, discussing how many watermelons would grow in our stomachs before we would evolve into watermelon volcanoes sputtering out mushy pink guck and black seeds. And finally popsicles, the summery treat that keeps on giving and leaves a sugary imprint on your face after each one.
With all these amazing tastes comes smells that collide and generate a whole different presentation of memories. There is the smell of campfires, which resurrects childhood memories of summer camp songs, cabin mates, cool lake air, the forbidden holding of hands during Russian camp summers. Colliding in the air with campfires is sunscreen and bug spray, otherwise known as coconut Deet perfume, when the two sprays mate they reproduce summer.
Whether the cicadas are mating, singing or having their own barbecue, growing up in the midwest, their sound is the summer ballad, chirping away through the heat of the summer sun into the warm hazy nights. Other summer sounds include the always present national anthem at baseball games, whistles blown by lifeguards and the crackle and sizzle off the old grill.
Of course, I can remember the clinging wet bathing suit I would spend 75% of my day in over childhood summers and now, the minute I get to wear my flip flops with an article of clothing that falls above my knees means that summer has arrived. The hippy child in me thinks of the feeling and smell of cool green summer grass, especially when it was wet in the morning before swim team practice. And the adult craves the sand in between my toes as I people watch away on the shores of some gorgeous beach.
If you haven´t been able to visualize this great American summer on the walk we´ve gone through, think about the green canopying your world, of giant trees inviting you to climb them and create dreams. Remember the firefly nights with crystal clear metal lid jars poked with air holes to capture fireflies and use their light as a magical night light. And in the end, like the end of a dream or a warm summer night, I see the burning embers of a campfire and the small wave of smoke saying goodbye to these special summer memories.
Coming home isn´t always special or purposeful, but it reminds you of what "home" is or can be and how even with all the gallavanting and a third of my life abroad, a large part of me is American, and that´s okay. I can only hope that where I settle one day stirs up my senses equally and inspires an entry.
My mother's barbecue ribs, a true American indulgence, caramelized, savory and finger licking good reminding me always of how food is so much better when you can eat with your hands. Being anywhere between the ages of 5 and 15 sitting around eating piece by piece of watermelon, smiles glued to our faces, discussing how many watermelons would grow in our stomachs before we would evolve into watermelon volcanoes sputtering out mushy pink guck and black seeds. And finally popsicles, the summery treat that keeps on giving and leaves a sugary imprint on your face after each one.
With all these amazing tastes comes smells that collide and generate a whole different presentation of memories. There is the smell of campfires, which resurrects childhood memories of summer camp songs, cabin mates, cool lake air, the forbidden holding of hands during Russian camp summers. Colliding in the air with campfires is sunscreen and bug spray, otherwise known as coconut Deet perfume, when the two sprays mate they reproduce summer.
Whether the cicadas are mating, singing or having their own barbecue, growing up in the midwest, their sound is the summer ballad, chirping away through the heat of the summer sun into the warm hazy nights. Other summer sounds include the always present national anthem at baseball games, whistles blown by lifeguards and the crackle and sizzle off the old grill.
Of course, I can remember the clinging wet bathing suit I would spend 75% of my day in over childhood summers and now, the minute I get to wear my flip flops with an article of clothing that falls above my knees means that summer has arrived. The hippy child in me thinks of the feeling and smell of cool green summer grass, especially when it was wet in the morning before swim team practice. And the adult craves the sand in between my toes as I people watch away on the shores of some gorgeous beach.
If you haven´t been able to visualize this great American summer on the walk we´ve gone through, think about the green canopying your world, of giant trees inviting you to climb them and create dreams. Remember the firefly nights with crystal clear metal lid jars poked with air holes to capture fireflies and use their light as a magical night light. And in the end, like the end of a dream or a warm summer night, I see the burning embers of a campfire and the small wave of smoke saying goodbye to these special summer memories.
Coming home isn´t always special or purposeful, but it reminds you of what "home" is or can be and how even with all the gallavanting and a third of my life abroad, a large part of me is American, and that´s okay. I can only hope that where I settle one day stirs up my senses equally and inspires an entry.
