What Summer Leaves Behind
How ordinary moments become lifelong memories
When I think of summer, the first thing I remember isn't hot dogs.
It’s the smell of Coppertone suntan lotion.
One whiff and I’m back at the neighborhood club on Long Island. My mom balances an oversized canvas tote stuffed with beach towels while reminding one of us that it’s time to apply sunscreen. My sister, two brothers, and I are already asking, “Has it been thirty minutes yet?” because everyone knew you had to wait a full half hour after lunch before you could swim again. (Who made up that rule, anyway?)
Soon, my mom settles into the shade with her friends for an afternoon of Canasta while we spend hours in the pool until our fingers wrinkle and our eyes sting from chlorine. When it's finally time to go home, we hurry across the hot asphalt, flip-flops slapping beneath our feet, wet towels slung over our shoulders.
Recently, I read an essay that asked a question I couldn't stop thinking about: “What does summer taste like?”
I thought back to my childhood, and immediately, I knew.
Summer tasted like grilled Hebrew National hot dogs with potato chips from the big golden tin and cold, sweet watermelon. It tasted like delicious hamburgers and Italian ices from the snack bar after a long day at the pool. It tasted like sweet corn sprinkled with salt, held by those little yellow corn cob holders we used every summer. It tasted like cold glasses of lemonade and my favorite treat from the Good Humor truck: a Candy Center Crunch bar.
On evenings when it was way too hot to cook, dinner was soft deli rolls piled with cold cuts and cheese, crisp dill pickles, and creamy macaroni salad from the neighborhood deli. I can’t eat many of those foods anymore because of food allergies, but somehow I can still taste every one of them.
Maybe that's because they were never just meals. They were part of the ordinary summer days that shaped my childhood.
They tasted like summers that seemed endless, when the biggest decision of the day was whether to jump off the diving board one more time. They tasted like bike rides until dinnertime, outdoor movie nights on quilts at the club, and the certainty that tomorrow would probably look a lot like today.
It’s incredible how a taste or a scent can carry us back decades. Sometimes all it takes is the smell of Coppertone sunscreen, and suddenly I’m ten years old again. Even now, I can hear the Good Humor truck jingle before I can picture it making its way down the street. I’m guessing most of us can hear the ice cream truck song.
As children, we think we’re remembering the hot dogs and the ice cream. As adults, we realize we’re remembering the people who made those summers possible.
I’m sure my mother wasn’t thinking about creating lifelong memories as she packed towels, reminded us to reapply sunscreen, or gathered four children into the station wagon for another day at the pool. She was doing what moms do—loving her family in a thousand ordinary ways that didn’t seem remarkable at the time.
Looking back, I realize they were remarkable.
These days, summer tastes a little different.
It tastes like steaks on the grill, savory chicken, a cold, crisp green salad, and warm, sweet blueberry crisp. It tastes like cooking for people I love and lingering around the table long after dinner is over because no one is in a hurry to leave.
Last week, I became a grandma.
While holding my sweet grandson, I found myself wondering about the memories he doesn't yet know he's collecting. One day someone may ask him what summer tastes like. I wonder what he’ll say.
Perhaps it will be helping me make a blueberry crisp or shucking sweet corn together on the back patio. Or perhaps it will be something I can't possibly imagine yet. The funny thing about memories is that we don't choose the ordinary moments we'll never forget.
My parents certainly didn’t. They were feeding their family. Only now do I understand they were doing something much greater. They were creating the flavors of home.
Perhaps that’s what summer leaves behind.
Not just the taste of sweet corn or the first bite of cold watermelon, but the feeling of being cared for. The smell of sunscreen on your shoulders. Damp towels drying in the sun. Laughter drifting across a pool. Knowing someone was quietly taking care of all the things kids never noticed.
The older I get, the more I think those are the flavors we carry with us for a lifetime.
Congratulations on the arrival of your new grandson! It's so funny, in the memoir class I lead on Monday evenings, we've been talking about the senses in terms of memory jogging and all your descriptions were so lush and lovely - they took me right back to my childhood too!
Ok Natalie - this one made me cry... congratulations on becoming a Grandma for the first time! And wondering what future summer would smell and taste and feel like for him. I, too, distinctly remember the scent of Coppertone sunscreen, Palmers Cocoa Butter moisturizer, the sheer joy of backyard swimming pools, running through sprinklers, slushies when that glorious sound came floating through the air. The joys of simple childhood fun. I hope those memories never fade. Thank you for a reminder of the simple pleasures of life and the joy we can share with the next generation. Keep writing!! Xx