As a child in the late ’90s, I associated summer with a greater connection to community. In our suburban neighborhood, everyone emerged in May like groundhogs, very pale and slightly shell-shocked, after the interminable Pittsburgh winter.
The change in energy was palpable. Instead of running, head down, into their houses, neighbors stopped to chat on the sidewalks while walking dogs or pushing kids in strollers. “Flamingo Fridays” became a weekly staple: A ghastly plastic bird planted in a front yard on Monday signaled that the back patio would be open for cocktails and appetizers that Friday night. Preteens traveled in packs from one house to another, calling their parents (from a landline, of course) only to let them know they’d be eating lunch at a friend’s house. The same wandering pack would end up at another address for dinner with little-to-no notice. In the summertime, we had little sense of boundaries — and that’s how we liked it.
Now I live in the South where summer starts much earlier (and with much more force), and with it comes fond memories of my childhood summers. I know I am not alone: Lately, I’ve had conversations with friends whose most formative childhood memories are rooted in summertime.
But why? What is it about summer, specifically, that’s so indelibly stamped in our childhood memories?
In part, I think it could be the relaxed schedule and longer days. A lighter workload and a more forgiving family schedule give the gift of extra time for
