Unscheduled
Nobody gave me permission for summer. I just took it.
Hey friend!
I live for summers, and I genuinely do not understand the people who don’t. The heat, the humidity, all of it. I don’t just tolerate it — I full-on crave it. I would rather be hot than cold any day of the week.
I love the slower pace, the joy, the peace that shows up somewhere around the middle to end of May. And I drag summer kicking and screaming all the way through September. I refuse to let it go.
Summer has always been mine. And I know that sounds a little weird, but hear me out. It’s also always been ours — as a family.
It started years and years ago, before Kate was even born, at the Poor Man’s Country Club in Collierville, Tennessee. That’s what we call the club we belong to. When the kids were little, before we moved to Davidson, I took them there every single solitary day. At least three times a week we’d have lunch — chicken nuggets, honey mustard, and french fries. Fun side note: when I was pregnant with Kate, that was the only thing I could eat without getting sick. And sure enough, when she was old enough for solid food, her favorite meal was chicken nuggets, honey mustard, and french fries. I’m not taking credit for that, but I’m not not taking credit for it either.
Windyke — that was the name of the club. That’s where the kids learned to swim. That’s where we found Mary and JonJon, their absolute favorite babysitters in the whole world. It was our little slice of joy, and I was committed to it from the very start. After Kate was born, she was three months old, and the pediatrician at her checkup told me she was the first baby he’d seen that age with honest-to-God tan lines. Slightly embarrassing. Did it change anything? Not one bit.
Even when we were hauling kids to AAU tournaments and travel ball all over creation, summer was still ours. We protected it on purpose because we knew what it was worth.
Every summer opens up the same way. We head to the beach — always the week before or the week of Memorial Day. And whenever possible, we try to end it the same way too, with another trip to the beach in September. Ocean at the start, ocean at the end, and everything good in between.
The in between is the best part.
Saturday mornings, I’m at the farmers market. First stop is always Barbee Farm — every single time. I end up tasting whatever new melon Tommy’s got, a yellow watermelon, some variety of canary melon, whatever they’re testing out that season. If you haven’t had a canary melon, it is 1,000% better than honeydew. Go find one. Don’t argue with me. Tommy always has something new they’re trying, and he’ll send me home with some of it and say, “Now next week I need you to tell me what you really think.” It’s just the best.
After Barbee Farm, I hit the Italian place for fresh pasta and handmade mozzarella, then grab a jar of Cannizzaro Famiglia pasta sauce for the nights when dinner needs to happen fast. Chicken and steaks from local farmers. And I talk to people — real talk. We trade recipes and report back on them the following week. Friends I haven’t laid eyes on since September show up right where I left them.
When the sunflowers come in, towards the end of June and beginning of July, I stop dead in my tracks every single time. Sunflowers were my grandfather Tot’s favorite flower. He’s been gone a long time, but he shows up every summer like clockwork — big and bright and completely unbothered by the heat. I buy a bunch for as long as they’re in season. It makes me think about him, and I feel like everything is just like it’s supposed to be.
By mid-morning on a Saturday, I’m in the pool with a book and an iced tea. I make my own simple syrups — lavender, peach, mint, whatever sounds good that week. We take the boat out on weekend mornings before it gets too hot. House rule: no early-afternoon boat trips, too crowded, too much mess.
In the backyard, I’m blowing bubbles for Nugget and Blue. And we give them their own watermelons — just set one down on the grass and step back. There is nothing funnier, and nothing fuller of pure joy, than watching a dog go after a watermelon on a hot afternoon.
About ten years ago, Josh and I started throwing a Fourth of July party. Back then it was for the kids and their friends — a way to have them home, safe, and accounted for. Homemade chicken wings, burgers, side dishes, fireworks, pool games we completely made up. We played pig like the NBA championship was on the line. Now those same kids show up with their own babies.
On July 10th, Josh and I celebrate 33 years of marriage. Thirty-three summers, every single one of them has felt exactly like this: unscheduled, free, and easy.
I’ve listened to five books since the end of May and read two more. I’m not behind on one single thing that actually matters. I’m not pushing toward something. I’m not optimizing anything. I’m just here, in my life, actually living it.
I want to know — what does summer feel like to you? Not your calendar. Not your to-do list. Not what you’re trying to wrap up before September comes for you. What does it actually feel like when you walk outside in the morning and it’s already warm and a little sticky, and the day hasn’t asked anything of you yet?
If you don’t know the answer to that, maybe that’s the answer.
Summer isn’t a reward. It’s not waiting on the other side of a good Q2. It’s peaches on the counter and sunflowers on the table and dogs losing their minds over a watermelon. It’s fresh pasta on a Tuesday and the boat on a Saturday morning before it gets too hot. It’s the beach at the end of May and the beach at the end of September.
This is what I love. This is summer to me.
What is it to you?
xx, Heather