We celebrate summer these days, not basking in the sunlight or cold lake water, but by engulfing our senses in the lethal force of cool air emerging from our floors, ceilings, and walls. The powerful jets of wind drown out our senses and ability to enjoy a tune, light conversation, or the droplets of summer rain on our dining room windows. 

It hasn’t been too long now, at least five summers ago when we opened the blinds with gusto and unlocked each latch. “Let us air the house out”, my mother would say. What a fun thing to say, as if you could tell air what it could, and couldn’t do, whether inside or out. 

The gentle breeze entering our home unannounced but not uninvited, would carry the smell of waffles and syrup through the veranda, to be enjoyed by the passing squirrels entirely too busy hiding their harvest. We surrounded the small table, decorated with fresh flowers and herbs from grandma’s garden, donning our cleanest tank tops and shorts. Father was ready to tackle the day, or maybe the sizzling bacon on his plate. 

The forecast called for scattered showers, repeating the cycle of summer. The scorching sun warmed our backs until the water came to cool us off. Even in the warmest part of the day, our home would let air in and out; even on the warmest hour, our worries were less.

Autumn leaves fell unceremoniously later that year, and the snow drifted lightly, sparsely, and vaguely to the earth. Tomatoes would thrive only to suffer in the last freeze, and mud puddles became center stage before the dance of the unlatching came again.

It was Grandma who first said, “It’s too warm for that”.

We haven’t stopped since.