The first time I realized summertime was magic, I was 10 years old, spending the
month of July in a cottage on Cape Cod with my family. The cottage was well-loved (read: smelling vaguely
of mildew, with a sagging screened-in porch and sand embedded between the floorboards)..
We spent all day at the beach, took outdoor showers, and ate dinner
on the back deck, which always included ears of corn from the farm stand
and thick slices of tomato. Many evenings there were trips to get soft-serve
ice cream and play miniature golf, where my siblings and I were allowed one mulligan per game.
Twice during the month my father woke us up in the middle of the night—the first time to walk us
down to the beach in our pajamas so we could gaze at the stars, the second time to gather
us around the dining room table where he lit candles and we played midnight Uno.
That summer and the handful that followed count as the most idyllic times of my life.