There’s something about summer that sticks with you. Not just the heat or the longer days, but the way it wraps around your memories and pulls them out of hiding.

For me, summer always smells like tomato vines and thunderstorms – like mowed grass and dirt that’s been sunbaked all afternoon. Those smells and sounds aren’t just sensory – they’re time machines. One whiff, one rumble of thunder and boom, I’m back on my grandparents’ farms.

My dad’s parents lived on this sprawling, beautifully chaotic farm that felt like it had no rules, and we loved it for that. There was this big old barn that creaked like it had a voice of its own. 

We’d turn it into anything – castle, pirate ship, secret headquarters. The real star of the show, though, was “the tank”—some giant metal leftover from who-knows-what, probably the oil business, rusting away behind a shed. To us, it was a spaceship or submarine, depending on the day. It had a hatch you could climb through, and the inside was always cool and shadowy, like a different planet entirely.

Gravel paths wound all over the place, edged with big rocks Grandpa had hauled back with his excavating business. You’d follow them and find old meadows, forgotten cars, and hay barns that smelled like sun and straw. The cars were supposed to be “fixed up someday,” but until then, they were jeeps, racecars, tanks – whatever we needed them to be. 

Now, across the county, my mom’s parents kept things a lot tidier. Their farm was more orderly. Neat rows of vegetables, clean chicken houses, flowers blooming like they knew they had a schedule to keep. The dirt there was cool and crumbly, perfect for digging in with bare hands, and the whole place had this peaceful rhythm to it.

On both farms, there was plenty of room for adventure – especially when it came to hide-and-seek. That game was everything. We played it in the barns, in the cornfields, old out building, and behind hay bales. 

The older cousins ran the show, and I remember trailing after them, trying to learn the unspoken rules. The first time I found a hiding spot all on my own, heart pounding in the quiet, I felt like I’d finally made it – no longer the tag-along, but a real player in the game.

We’d go until we were out of breath and covered in dust, then collapse somewhere – usually the back porch – waiting for one cousin to start telling stories. One of them always had a flair for drama, especially with ghost stories. We’d huddle close, wide-eyed, and jump at every creak or gust of wind, half-believing the tales were real. 

The best stories had just enough truth in them to make you wonder.

As evening settled in, the fireflies would come out and the cicadas would crank up their song. Sometimes, a summer storm would roll in right in the middle of a game. I remember one night, the rain started just as the game was going full force. We should’ve gone in, but we didn’t. Not right away. We ran around in the downpour, laughing like we’d never be tired again, until my grandma’s voice came floating from the porch. She had a teacher’s voice – calm but serious, like you knew the fun was over. We’d drag ourselves inside, soaked and happy, towel off with whatever we could find, and snack on watermelon or buttered saltines.

Some nights, the power would go out and we’d all end up in the carport or living room, waiting for the storm to pass. The grown-ups would tell stories while lightning flashed, and just when the lights flickered back on, we’d hear that familiar voice from the TV: eccentric weather lady Marcia Yockey from WFIE Evansville, saying the storm was a “real humdinger.” It felt like we’d just survived something big, even if it was just a good thunderstorm.

Now, years later, it doesn’t take much to pull me back—just the smell of honeysuckle or the sound of frogs at night. Suddenly I’m there again: flashlight in hand, the glow of porch lights through the trees, cousins laughing somewhere in the distance.

And hey, if you ever want to play a game of hide-and-seek – flashlights or not, rules up for debate – I’m always in. No question.