The Sounds of Summer

Out of everywhere I've spent the summer, or at least any time of the year that's not winter and freezing, there have always been little characteristics that make it unique, that would let me know, if I were blind, where in the world I was just because of my memory. Whether I was a small child, a toddler, or a kid about my age now, these little things stuck with me forever, and whenever I hear them, in or out of context, it makes me revert back to this strange dimension of sentimental values.

The Train.

It's the startling background reminder that there is still a world around you as you sit in the green, lush downtown, people bustling everywhere, going about there business. The soft whisper that hangs in the warm urban air, framing the sun as it sinks below the horizon, leaving the world in a cooler atmosphere, a breeze just tickling your skin. The train is going home for the evening, delivering late workers home to their families, and another city day is coming to an end.

The Foghorn. 

Living more than half my life on the Oregon coast, and the rest of it in Massachusetts, I've heard plenty of foghorns in my life, whether it was on family trips to Canadian islands, early crabbing expeditions, or searching for orcas at dusk. It's not just because of the name, but the sound of a foghorn reminds me of the stillness of everything. It's a quiet alarm, testing to see if you're still there, only heard when everything is perfectly quiet. The wind is barely a breath over the water, and a seal will occasionally peek its head up, studying you with its big, curious eyes. The whole ocean, grey and motionless, is blanketed with thick fog, that's only beginning to clear. But if you can hear the foghorn, you know that everything will be all right.

The Airplane.

Lying on the beach with my eyes closed, on a damp towel that was once dry, hours ago, I can always rely on hearing the roar of the airplane above me. In Rhode Island, you can count on seeing several airplanes streaking across the sky, large messages flapping out behind them. I used to look up at them, and wonder about the people in them, whether they were from Asia or Europe or just the Boston airport a few hours away. With the crashing of the waves on the beach, and the shouts of children splashing in the shallow water, a plane across the sky screams summer to me. And not just a summer. The Rhode Island summer of my past.


It's all very lovely.