Column by Al Batt, Tales from Exit 22

It is summer.

Our bones bake and our blood thins.

Time to take the old air out and put the summer air into the car tires.

Summer is the season when bellies come out to play. Whether they should or not.

Summer is when a former mayor of Hartland begins to drive in the shade.

Summer is the time of the year when I really appreciate the fact that I don&8217;t live in Arizona.

Someone once told me that the perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing gently, the birds are singing, and the lawnmower is broken.

Among the many things I enjoy about our warmest season are the following, in no particular order.

A good book and a familiar chair in the shade.

Cobwebs on the snow blower.

Listening to the meadowlarks sing.

Eating sweet corn. Thinking about eating sweet corn. Eating sweet corn. Even bad sweet corn is good. As a boy, we would cook up some field corn and eat it. We thought it was great.

Hearing that haunting call of a loon.

Watching fireflies brightening the night. As a boy, I would catch lightning bugs and put them in a jar. I&8217;d watch them for an hour or two, marveling at their abilities to illuminate their rear ends, before releasing them. It was a perfect evening when the fireflies came out and the mosquitoes didn&8217;t.

Watching a patient heron fish. The big birds are the epitome of patience.

Getting into a bed equipped with sheets and pillowcases that dried outside on a clothesline. Such linens have that delightful smell of sunshine.

Air conditioning. I grew up in a world without much air conditioning. Our house and cars never felt the cold breath of the AC. The closest I came was dipping my big, old red handkerchief into cool water and then tying the cloth around my neck to bring whatever coolness I could to my body. The shade of large trees brought relief from the sun and a creaking fan moved the hot air around our house. Sweat was a constant companion.

Birdsong and summer clouds. Music and imagination.

BLTs with tomatoes fresh from the garden. Especially if they are

Brandywine tomatoes. They are ugly, but beyond delicious.

The hot weather eases the attack of the ticks. I don&8217;t miss using a lint roller to remove the ticks from my body.

Flowers on parade.

Raspberries. I love raspberries. I readily become torn and tattered,

sweaty and bloody, in my pursuit of the wily berry. Raspberries covered with a bit of milk and sugar make for a sinfully good breakfast.

There are things that I do not particularly enjoy about summer.

I miss the perfume of lilacs that hung in the spring air.

Mosquitoes. I know that there is a purpose to everything, but it&8217;s difficult to muster much of a liking for mosquitoes. I take comfort in the knowledge that it&8217;s not the number of mosquitoes that matter, it&8217;s how many of them bite you.

Storms. My wife hides in the basement when there are threats of bad weather. I have to look for the storm. I walk to the end of the driveway in search of storms. I&8217;m a guy. We have to see what might get us. It&8217;s the law of the rattlesnake bite. When women are bitten by a rattlesnake, the wound is on the foot or ankle. That&8217;s because the woman accidentally steps on the snake. Where do rattlesnakes bite men? We&8217;re bitten on the face or hands because we are looking for the snakes. Snakes or storms, it&8217;s all the same to us.

The humidity. Sticky, sweaty, stuffy, and sultry.

I don&8217;t like mowing the lawn. I don&8217;t have the lawn mowing gene. My grandmother refused to mow her lawn. She said that she would start mowing her lawn when she saw an obituary that said that the dearly departed was survived by a well-manicured lawn. I have a friend who pretends he is a NASCAR driver while he is on the lawn mower. He&8217;s lucky he has a riding mower. Pretending to be a NASCAR driver while pushing a mower would be sad.

I don&8217;t need a calendar to tell me when summer has arrived. My neighbor Crandall changes from his winter long underwear to his lightweight long handles.

Summer, as does every season, leaves us much too soon.

William Shakespeare wrote, &8220;Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.&8221; Shakespeare wrote a lot of things. He was like the prime-time TV of his time.

I remember learning in school that things get larger when they get hot. That’s why days are longer in the summer than they are in the winter.

Enjoy your summer.

Hartland resident Al Batt&8217;s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.