Scenes of Summer

I smile at the smell of freshly cut grass and soil in the air. I am instantly transported back to Minnesota. In my imagination, the grass is thick and green, a lush carpet beneath my toes; not spotty yellow patches that are scorched under the Arizona sun or dying of thirst in the California drought. But the smell I'm thinking of--USC Facilities Management didn’t put that scent on the air. It was my Dad and his small gas-powered lawn mower. It was always him versus the dandelions, though I never understood why they need to go when the marigolds and roses are so well tended.

In a moment, I can be back on that lawn, kneeling in my blue Sleeping Beauty nightgown, trying to perfect the quintessential princess pose. There's my tree swing—before my cousin broke the branch—and the many fallen crabapples from the trees that line the chain-link fence. I climb the bright red porch in Rochester to sit on the striped lounge. I like to sit here. The puffy plastic fabric feels cool in the humidity. I study the nest where we can usually watch the baby birds call for their mom. I taste freshly shucked sweet corn.

More scenes from summer: My sister and I are covered in chalk. I can smell the powdery substance on my forearms. But we are never close to being done. She races our Fisher Price Cozy Coupe down the colorfully doodled “street” in a manner and speed that would have impressed the Flintstones. Our feet are dull grey by this time--a combination of too many colors (and dirt) after walking the chalked rooms of our dream homes and hopscotch halls. But we've finally connected our half of the street mural to the neighbor's, Rachel, my friend who is my age. Tomorrow, we plan to expand even further. Covered in color and designs, the entire neighborhood is a child-artists' colony, rivaled in décor only by the striking kolams of Indian festivals.

And more: I'm back in Lester Prairie where my brother, sister, and I run and play barefoot in the grass, retrieving all manner of summer toys from the musty wooden tool shed. I take a long time to pick out the next activity just because I like to stand inside the shed and breathe its earthy air. I return with hula-hoops and another onset of itches from fresh mosquito bites. But we end up playing a game that involves weaving though the clean towels and sheets on the line as they flap in the breeze. If only detergent bottles could really trap that scent. Purist that I am, I’m always left disappointed in my apartment laundry room.

When we become tired, we flop down on our backs to watch the clouds roll overhead. The mellow tones of the various wind chimes are soon overwhelmed by the sounds of conversation. The rest of the family has arrived. I smell citronella candles and calamine lotion. The sickly pink-purple of Benadryl slides down my throat and coats my tongue in a furry sort of way. But I’ll do anything to reduce the swelling of those mosquito bites. “It’s because you’re sweet” doesn’t make me feel better. But the summer snack assortment does. I return for slice after slice of summer sausage, handfuls of Old Dutch Dill Pickle flavored chips, and especially to the tins of sweet and dense O’Henry bars.

I could simply call my mom for the O'Henry Bars recipe and mix up a batch in my Los Angeles apartment. But would it really taste like summer in Minnesota? Not a chance.