The Charlotte Jewish News- June- July 2026- Page 2 Jewish Federation of Greater Charlotte
From the Editor’ s Desk: Someone Was Quietly Building Summer
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The Charlotte
JEWISH
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Published by Jewish Federation of Greater Charlotte
Editor Elizabeth Johnson
Sr. Communications Specalist Jessica Goldfarb
Social Media Manager Shelby Robinson
Director of Marketing Dylan Vander Velde
5007 Providence Road, Suite 101 Charlotte, NC 28226( 704) 944-6765 www. charlottejewishnews. org elizabeth. johnson @ jewishcharlotte. org
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Published monthly except July
NEWS
As a child, summer already existed as mythology. Not the season itself, but ours specifically. Every June, my siblings and I packed into the backseat of our blue Volvo station wagon for our annual summer adventure. My father was typically traveling on business, so my mother would drive Keith, Michelle and me from Dallas to Hilton Head Island for two weeks in the same corner of Sea Pines we have returned to since 1981. Big Teddy would meet us there by plane.
In the weeks beforehand, we filled boxes and strategically packed the car. I still remember seeing beach coolers stacked in the garage and feeling butterflies dance wildly in my stomach. As the eldest Breyer child, I appointed myself my mother’ s helper. In turn, I managed our“ to do” list and accompanied her to the local AAA to collect our tailored maps. This was long before GPS, and before children traveled with iPads, power cords, individualized snack systems and noise-canceling headphones.
We always set off when it was still dark. My mother would rouse us from our beds and walk us to the garage so we could continue sleeping in the car. The backseat was a landscape of pillows, doughnuts procured from a local Vietnamese haunt on our way out of town, cartons of chocolate milk and my mother’ s apricot bars, which have since achieved near-legendary status in our family. Somewhere deep into the drive, one of three soundtracks inevitably took over the car stereo: Chicago 17, Andrew Lloyd Webber’ s greatest hits or“ Annie,” sung loudly and badly by all three of us as the miles stretched eastward. My poor, poor mother.
The inevitably annoying“ Are we there yet?” queries became more frequent once we saw the sign welcoming us to South Carolina. Excitement grew as palm trees began tracing the highway and, when we turned off I-95, the smell of the sea perfumed the air. As children, this was mesmerizing. We all clapped as we crossed the bridge onto the island and became even more animated as we drove beneath a canopy of trees laced with Spanish moss, an inviting segue to our destination.
We jumped out excitedly, eagerly helping unload the car. Once every bathing suit had been put away and bags of chips found their way into cupboards, my father would arrive from the airport. We kids would prepare for a dusk swim in the pool while my parents poured scotches and positioned themselves within eyesight of us. And just like that, the Breyer summer began.
Mornings meant English muffins slathered with butter and raspberry jam, grabbed quickly before heading out the door barefoot and sunblock-scented. My siblings and I learned to ride our bikes on the hard-packed beaches of Hilton Head. My daughte, Lucy did too, last summer.
As tradition follows, we pedaled past the stables to feed the horses carrots and apples, rode to Harbor Town for the lighthouse, playground and ice cream cones and ended evenings beneath the Liberty Oak listening to Gregg Russell sing songs while gently teasing children to the delight of their exhausted parents.
As we grew older, summer expanded and Europe entered the picture. There were afternoons wandering through Notting Hill staring at rows of brightly painted doors. Dinners in Belgium built around mussels and frites. Long walks along the Seine trying not to get pickpocketed. Moped rides to nightclubs in Positano. The beaches of Portugal. Witnessing Picasso’ s“ Guernica” in the flesh after studying it in art history class and realizing the world could suddenly feel both larger and more intimate at once.
But when I think about summer now, it is often the smaller things I remember first. The sound of sprinklers turning on at dusk. Riding bikes until the streetlights came on. Camp
friendship bracelets still damp from the pool. My father loosening almost imperceptibly as the days stretched longer. Patio chairs scraping against the stone before dinner outside. The lights in our pool turning on at dusk, signaling swim time did not have to end, which was the best thing in the world.
As children, we experience summer as something that simply appears around us. Effortless. Abundant. Endless. Only later do you realize someone was building it the entire time.
Someone packed the beach bags with beloved snacks. Made the sandwiches( remembering no crust for some). Constantly ran the washing machine laundering towels. Remembered the sunscreen and bug spray. Paid attention to what would become memory. Because as Big Teddy says,“ We are forever together with our memories.”
Now, with Lucy, I find myself inhabiting that role almost without noticing. Summer still arrives with the same sense of anticipation, though the rhythms look different now. Our militant morning routine includes spraying Lucy down with sunscreen and pulling her hair into a ponytail. We spend long afternoons at the Levine JCC pool with friends. We grill outside more nights than not.
Twice a week, we wander the farmers market to handpick okra( always look for the smallest ones), fresh lettuce, stone fruits galore, plump blackberries and misshaped heirloom tomatoes that taste the way summer heirloom tomatoes should.
Every year, my family flies in from around the country for Lucy’ s birthday garden party, and for one loud, beautiful evening the backyard fills with children running through the grass while the adults linger around the table long after dark.
And perhaps that is what I have come to understand about both summer and Jewish life itself: so much of what shapes us happens quietly inside repetition. The same places. The same recipes. The same songs playing in the background. The same stories told again and again. Camps. Pool friendships. Shabbat dinners outdoors. Grandparents arriving with overstuffed suitcases and leaving behind traditions children do not yet realize they are inheriting.
We think children will remember the grand gestures. More often, they remember the raspberry jam on an English muffin before the beach. And someday, almost without warning, they become the adults trying to create that feeling for someone else.
The paper presses pause for the month of July so we will see you back in August. Until then, wishing you and yours a halcyon summer.
Elizabeth Johnson Editor The Charlotte Jewish News