Summer Vacation: the Only Rx for Homesickness

Here we go, the annual post about how much I miss summer on the East Coast. I am homesick and the only cure is the beach, Sam Summer and illegal amounts of lobster and Scoop Deck ice cream.

Everyone always wonders why I get so homesick in the summer despite all of the great things Chicago has to offer. It's because for me, summers hold the best memories.
Growing up, my family spent summer vacations camping in the woods--fishing, digging for worms, riding bikes, picking blueberries, going for canoe rides, toasting marshmallows over dad's fire, exchanging ghost stories, playing basketball at the court and putting on plays to earn money immediately spent at the candy store.

Back in Worcester, we'd spend full days and nights swimming in the backyard pool (that we put together ourselves--I remember I was stung by a bee one day during the process), sucking on homemade Kool-Aid popsicles as we dried off, and watching tennis on TV during days it was too hot to move (thanks Sean, if you hadn't hogged the television I would never have seen Andre Agassi, Boris Becker or Pete Sampras play).

When we got older and outgrew our days at the campground, we started vacationing in Maine--my sister and I walked the Old Orchard Beach boardwalk like a couple of cool teenagers who knew better than our parents, making the most of our 10 p.m. curfew. Our over-sized fleece hoodies covered up our fresh sunburns because we didn't apply sunblock when mom told us we should.

Soon, my parents had a place of their own in Wells. Days at the beach were followed by lazy afternoons sipping wine spritzers on the porch, which usually led to nights spent in line waiting for homemade ice cream from Scoop Deck. Some days the idea of a lazy weekend in Maine was all that got me through a stressful work week. As soon as I breathed in the ocean air, I could feel my problems melt away under the heat of the summer sun.

I never fully appreciated the icy Atlantic saltwater, the fresh seafood or the family time when I was a mere 1.5-hour drive from paradise. I took for granted that when I looked up into the night sky I could see millions of stars--although I could never find the Little Dipper.

I will always associate summer weekends with family and the great outdoors. Sometimes the idea of spending another weekend at the crowded lakefront or Chicago (insert street fest name here) makes me miss home more than I ever thought I could. I don't expect anyone to understand--it's the kind of appreciation you can only learn through leaving and living without.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can feel the hot sand in between my toes and taste pieces of salty hair that have escaped my ponytail as the ocean breeze whips them in my face. I can hear the crickets and smell the bug spray used to guard against preying mosquitoes.

I can see it now. And all that stands between me and my summer vacation is a plane ride. Let the memories begin.