Perfect song on the radio
Sing along 'cause it's one we know
It's a smile, it's a kiss
It's a sip of wine, it's summertime
Sweet summertime

We were wide-open that day, in the car, singing a country song, among the farms, up and down the rolling hills of the great, free, wonderful wide open.

The wind whipped through the wide-open windows. All twenty-four speakers, windows and sunroof - wide open.

"Perrfecttt songgg on the radiOOOO..."

That was then.

When the warm July air wrapped around us; infused with the smells of tall sweetgrass and wildflowers and pollen, like aromatherapy for our souls. That funky lady selling at the market would have been so jealous.

Her hand hung in the humid air, out the window; fingers floating above the rows and rows of hay and alfalfa. Waving at the memories of Sunday mornings, farmers markets, carnivals, cabins, ice-filled coolers.

These were days of pontoon boats and orange life vests and tackle boxes.

Summer days, like that one, offered a glimpse of the precious purity of life - so sweet, yet so indescribable.

At some point, she had kicked off her sandals and put her feet on the dashboard, with painted pink nails (and a little summer-chipped), her homage to Kenny's summer ballad - and a distracted-driving hazard of cut-off jeans; golden skin and long legs. Oh, for some yoo-hoo bottles and sips of wine.

An endless repetition of cornstalks blurred past us like mile markers. As summer always did, it burned through the afternoon with its own priorities. It was bursting and ripe and determined to show us its entire wardrobe of wonder.

In return, all it asked for was admiration and awe. That and bare skin and sweat; bikinis and flip-flops and belly buttons. Tattoos - show 'em if you got 'em.

Summer is powerful magic. It can make us believe almost anything. In ice cold water, in naps, in freedom. In the carelessness of wasted afternoons. In the belief that rusted tractors were just about the best landscaping, ever, possibly excepting weathered barns and faded ads for pipe tobacco.

It is a time when citronella and dill weed and ripe tomatoes are intoxicating. When we - all of a sudden - remember how awesome ice-cold popsicles can be.

When it's hot, eat a root beer popsicle
Shut off the AC and roll the windows down
Let that summer sun shine
Don't take for granted the love this life gives you

Along the country roads, the cicadas had started their afternoon song, high up in the towering roadside oaks. The leafy kings of summer rustled their leaves as we drove past, and the cicada sounds chased us, slowing receding until we reached the next imposing look-at-me, show-off oak giant.

Beyond each crested hill, there was another country postcard, another summer painting, each splashed with the same green pigments.

"Remember when I told you about the girl I dated at sixteen?" I asked her, across the seats. I had agreed to be silent of past girlfriends, but this one seemed distant enough.

"Well, my favorite memory from that summer we dated is from a hot afternoon, falling asleep on the floor in front of a box fan," I explained. "It's still such a vivid memory."

Memories of relationships fade, but we somehow remember certain summer afternoons.

We have a kind of bargain with summer. It's a three-month one-night-stand. Summer is ours to consume - to get drunk, to get sunburned, to sail, to watch baseball, to love, to bare everything. In exchange, we give in to a relationship that we know won't last.

And I think it gets high on our love for it.

With summer, life is ripe, like fresh cantelope. Life is succulent and rich, like the blue of blueberries that pop purple on the summer runways of open-air country tables.

And you know what? Summer can make love seem so easy. Carefree highway. Ventura highway. Barcelona. Love thrives in sundresses and Coppertone and sun-kissed skin.

And damn, it makes the world seem pretty cool.

Like it did just then, with her feet on the dashboard. Her hair swirling in the open window, blown about by summer wind.

Swirling with bleached highlights, her hair was a whipping, wonderful maelstrom of mirrors that captured every nuance, every wonderful fractal of that July moment in time.

Ah, summer memories. Love may fade, but it's the summers that refuse to let go.

"It's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine. It's summertime."

Sweet summertime.

#joy

It's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine. Sweet summertime.