Summer in Maine has been a tradition since before I was born, and Long Island is where it all began. As soon as the smell of salt in the air hits you, that’s when you know its summer. That smell soon became the smell of home, that scent you longed for all winter long. Being on the island meant that all worries were put behind us until we stepped on the mainland again, which wouldn’t be till August. My brother and I getting up early in the morning and running the short distance from our house to our grandparents just so we could eat grape nuts with Noie, only one of the many signs of summer. Spending hours at Fowlers beach, only knowing time by watching how many ferries crossed the sound. Taking outdoor showers so the massive amounts of sand we collected all day wouldn’t be all over the cottage, which I am sure was a blessing for our parents. Cooking red hot dogs and burgers on the grill. Laughing at the creative and magical stories that my uncle would tell us about Mrs. Perry and the cats and how to tell what time the sun would set with our fingers. Running around the yard trying to hold onto the last bit of sunshine that was left on the long summer day. Sitting on the deck watching as the sun was about to set on another perfect day on the island. Summer was about family and while many of those that enjoyed these summer days and made them what they, might not still be with us they are still here watching the sunset. And this is summer in Maine.