Come summer I take down the velvet drapes, put rugs in the attic, slipcover the livingroom furniture in cotton florals, hang screen doors, open windows. Next come wicker furniture and a red geranium for the front porch. The down comforter gets replaced by the Bates bedspread and a good-old, wool blanket at the foot - got to keep that handy. All Maine’s summer nights aren’t reliably warm.

But, oh, how we savor those few hot, humid evenings’ penetrating warmth and imposed pace! From under the sky-blue ceilinged porch we watch passers by strolling down the sidewalk, kids licking ice-cream, and dogs padding along, too hot to tug on their leashes anymore. We might walk up to the ice-cream shop, but if we’re too lazy, homemade lemonade in my grandmother’s pitcher will do.

In contrast, we love a full-blown Wizard of Oz thunderstorm - you know the kind - when suddenly your dress is stuck to your legs, the watering-can tumbles by, and the morning newspaper that you left on the patio table is flattened against the fence. The anticipation of the closest, loudest, brightest lightning flash keeps us rapt. With each booming clap we huddle near the front door hoping for an even bigger one! Then the thrilling, brief, chilly relief of the mighty downpour lasts just long enough to set us up for the next treat, if we’re lucky - the rainbow. That gigantic arc of colors is a summertime-only feast for the eyes.

Less dramatically, my aromatic, multi-green herb garden enhances our grilled corn, mint-juleps, salmon, tomatoes, cucumbers, berries’n’cream, lobster, you name it. No matter where on earth I’ve been, nor a restaurant’s stars, my best meals have been prepared by my husband or son and served on the patio with family and friends, our conversation lingering ‘til we all lean back and look up to pick out the big dipper.

Summer’s here providing sensory overload. I’m happy I live in Maine.

There’s no place like home.