Summer at Home—Away
DURING THE DARKEST, dreariest months of the year when I find myself longing for summer, a certain place always comes to mind. It’s a specific place, a lake house from my childhood, but what takes shape in my daydreams is imprecise, sculpted from sensory impressions. There’s the creak of the twin spindle beds my sister and I shared, the cicadas’ strange lullaby drowned out by the steady hum of a ceiling fan. Then there’s the crunch of gravel under a tire gently announcing the arrival of a guest and the seductive scent of burgers on the grill. What does the house look like? It hardly matters in my memories. Which isn’t to say the house didn’t have a decorating point of view. Quite the opposite, in fact. Especially because it never…