As the earth’s north pole tilts towards the sun on its annual
seasonal swing, I love being north. June 21st is fast approaching. “The
days are getting longer,” as my mother would chime every morning of the
new year, though by June 1st, her voice already carried the wistful
regret of June 22nd.
I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where long days meant going to
bed before the sun and waking long before parents. I would go out into
the wild sassafras forests, trees with root-beer smelling feet and
large, three-fingered hands, lowering their vines to invite me to give
my best Tarzan cry. Deep in the forest hid the old log cabin, rotting,
where I would scratch for arrowheads while keeping an eye out for
Indians. Called home by the Ivanhoe cry of my father at the doorway, I
would quickly eat to go out again. And if it was Friday or Saturday
night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.
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