I’m not a summertime gal. My family ancestry is Irish, Danish and Russian, so to steal a joke from Billy Connolly, I’m not white, I’m pale blue. (Unforch, I can’t find that exact joke in a clip, so enjoy his NSFW take here on aromatherapy.) I’m so fair I practically ignite in the sun and I’m the person that bugs adore. More often than not when the weather turns sunny and hot I spend a tremendous amount of time defending myself against the outdoors. But there are things about the summer that I love.
I live in a small town. No, no, don’t cue the John Mellencamp music (oh, OK, I’ll do it) but nevertheless, it’s true. I grew up and then lived in more densely-populated parts of the US, where people in glittery costume sunglasses compete for who can be the loudest “Woo!”-er at the party, where people pack together ridiculously tightly in the pursuit of fun but don’t talk to the person standing next to them. I was a little nervous about moving to a small town because I thought…small town, everyone knows everyone, right? I’m the stranger, I’m only going to know my sister here, for the rest of my life. I thought I’d be here for six months, collect my bearings and take off for Boston or some other metropolis. That was eight years ago. Since then I’ve found a wonderful group of friends with whom I’ve made some awesome memories. Among these are memories of a summer night in a nearby park, watching miniature hot air balloons and fireworks, celebrating the Fourth of July. This story will take more than one picture to tell, but nevertheless, for me, this is summer.