We awoke to a “northern” Fourth.

I grew up in Memphis, TN. There are 3.5 seasons in Memphis: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and “Winter”. Winter, without snow and without plummeting temperatures, is the half season. The extremities of summer make up for it. Summer begins in May and ends in October.

I have lived “up North” since 1998. There are only 2 seasons up north: Winter, and road construction. In some northern areas, Spring doesn’t gloriously bloom its heart out, but merely lets you know things are changing because of the ubiquitous mess and mud. Summers are cool; ACs can be superfluous; temperatures “soar into the 80s.” Autumn, if the rain comes at the right time, explodes with its final burst of red and gold before the Great White Blanket settles over earth and sky for the next 6 months. Mandatory survival items are long underwear, heater, fireplace, kerosene lantern, a bucket of thawed water, beef jerky, and a full length down coat with flip-top mittens.

While Winters up north can seem unsurvivable, Summers down south can feel oppressive, except for a few accoutrements which provide temporary release. I remember enjoying standing in front of Grandma’s window AC after playing outside. She’d offer a drink of cold “warter” which somehow tasted colder than it seemed possible. I’d enjoy long gulps of cold water, cooling me from the inside out. Then I’d dart out again, with admonitions not to slam the door, and play on the leaning tree.

I also remember the ceremony of making homemade ice cream. The “freezer burn” headache that ensued was painful yet the fun family times of listening for the motor “to stop” is something that I just can’t explain. Waiting for the ice cream to cure seemed like an eternity.

My first remembrance of a Northern Fourth still fills me with disequilibrium. We were camping, which brings me out of my comfort zone enough, and it was cold. We sat around a fire, drinking hot chocolate. We wrapped ourselves in Mexican blankets. We did not prepare home made ice cream, and we did not eat ice cold watermelon, and we did not yearn for an AC. I still get that discombobulated feeling when I recall that first Northern Fourth. To me, it was No Fourth At All. I felt like we should be decorating a Christmas tree.

Our evening celebration of the Fourth this year included the usual “northern” attire, Jeans and a sweatshirt, and introduced a “new” tradition: S’mores. We walked down to the Gauthiers, whose backyard is situated so that we could watch the neighborhood’s fireworks. We could see the ones at both ends of the power lines, the ones behind their property and the ones across the street. We enjoyed a great campfire, and of course, lots of roasted marshmallows and s’mores.

I still think that the Fourth should be celebrated in shorts and a tank top with the AC blasting and the ice cream maker grinding away. I miss fireworks over the river. One day, I hope that we return to the sultry South. I’m sure that I’ll then long for the ways of the North. Perhaps I’ll don my sweatshirt and stand in front of the blasting AC with a bowl of ice cream in one hand and a cup of hot cocoa in the other.