I walked out onto the front porch tonight, just for a moment, as the sun was setting. It had been a hot and sweaty day, with the kind of direct bright sunshine that I’ve never liked, but the evening had begun to mellow all that. And though it had threatened rain all day, it never come true on the promise, and yet the smell of an impending storm hung in the air.
I was only dashing out for a moment to grab something that had been left outside — the children still needed to be fed and bathed and put to bed — but I found myself paused there on the porch. It was just too seductive — so balmy, and quiet, the sunset golden pink… I didn’t want to leave it. It was utterly enchanting.
I have always loved English summers, with their cool freshness, their faint mildewy-ness, the warmish days and chilly evenings. But they were all the forgotten — the last 15 years melted away — as I was transported to back to the summers I grew up with. And I stood unmoving, frozen in place for a few moments, to drink it in.
English summers are blues and greens, gentle, and tender. American summers are dusty golden yellow, harsh, and brash.
And beautiful, beautiful… beautiful.