There’s a particular kind of Southern summer that lives in the body forever.
The fogged windows. The wall of humidity at the back door. The watermelon and lightning bugs, the creek rocks and swimming pools, the fried chicken packed for family trips, the sprinklers and sparklers and mosquitoes, the water that gives joy—and sometimes takes it away.
This piece begins with Harper Lee and Scout’s summer, but it moves through Arkansas childhood, France’s deadly canicules, Southern sayings about heat, climate change, wetlands, memory, family, and the strange magic that still rises from this place even when the livin’ is hot as hell.
It’s about summer as sweetness and warning. About what we inherit. About what we lose. About the land and water that hold our stories. And about trying to give a child the kind of summer memories that last.
The audio is now available for those who want to listen.
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