When I was a kid, you were the second most thrilling time of year. Wintertime always came out on top, of course, because… SNOW!

But summertime meant no school! And homemade popsicles! And staying up later! And bike rides to the Red Rooster! And a month in Vancouver with Poppa and Nonna and everyone else on this side of the Rockies!

I could be barefoot more often than not.

I could wear shorts more often than not.

I could be outside more often than not.

I remember my favourite outfit of all time: a pink seersucker one-piece ensemble with straps that tied at my shoulders. I felt so glamourous and sophisticated in that little pantsuit, even as the seersucker was scratching the life out of my fresh Crescent Beach sunburn.

Beauty is pain. I knew it even then.

But.

Summertime was the apple tree in bloom in the backyard on Waverley.

Summertime was the blue plastic pool on Tutshi, sending tiny ants out to sea on the BatBoat.

Summertime was barrel rolls down the toboggan hill with Shelley, grass stains on our knees and elbows.

Summertime was white sandals on Sunday mornings.

Summertime was Baskin Robbins on 49th, eating Golden Delicious Sherbet out of a small, polka-dot cup.

Summertime was pre-bedtime walks on Cannon Beach, whispering secrets to Margie.

Summertime was a week at camp, avoiding giant spiders and crashing windsurfers into old, faded docks.

Then summertime was camp for three months… for 15 years.

Did I really do it that long?

Whole staff-fulls of friendships.

Hundreds of pairs of flip flops.

Thousands of hours spent on boats circumnavigating the island, and on ferries to and fro.

So many cans of Coke consumed trying to stay awake that I fear my tan was really an overdose of “caramel colour.”

More crushes than I can recall, some of which only existed in memory until they existed again on my Facebook (huzzah!)

And most importantly, thousands and thousands of kids that I loved, and laughed with, and listened to, and saved from certain peril with Dean in a Whaler because they — like me, years before — could not tack to save their lives.

Now summertime is work of a different sort, at a job indoors where I do not have to convince 9 year-old boys that sunscreen won’t melt their skin off.

Now summertime is a warm apartment at the end of the day, offset by the most gorgeous sunsets on our deck.

Now summertime is friends visiting from far away.

Now summertime is our crazy Aussie bellowing from the deck upstairs, or Karen’s tan rocking harder than ours, or Presley in sundresses.

Now summertime is no one questioning my Havaiana habit.

Now summertime is dining on patios, whenever possible.

And now summertime is actually September, when we head off for our vacation on a real, live airplane.

But most of all?

It’s perfect. And freckly. And shining. And crisp and sweet and fresh like watermelon. And not over yet.

I love you, Summer.

Thanks for coming out.

Love,

Meg