never really appreciated summer until I was an adult. As a kid in Florida, I swam at the beach or pool year-round. And summer weather in the Sunshine State is awful. A wall of heat slams you in the face any time you exit the air conditioning and cars seats literally burn your skin upon contact. It’s brutal.
No matter what the weather, summers don’t really mean that much to kids. I loved having time to read whatever I wanted (before Required Reading reared its ugly head: I’m looking at you Madame Bovary). I had no plans, really, and there was no rush to do much of anything except roam the neighborhood on our bikes, picking wild grapefruit from untended trees and watching out for snakes.
The mysterious allure of summer began to reveal itself to me when I started my first job in the Midwest after college. Co-workers took vacations and vanished for weeks at a time, returning with tans and photographs of exotic locations. People got truly excited about this sunshine thing after the long winter and cool spring seasons. I started to get it.
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