A few days back, San asked about this here blog’s Kentucky Fridays in the comments. A few months back, likely when the summer of 2009 drew to a close, I had decided to write about my Kentucky experience regularly – a new story, another memory every Friday. San’s comment couldn’t have come at a better, or a worse, time. As has been true every year, when the hustle and bustle of Christmas is over and the chances for snow become slim and slimmer, I find myself longing for summer. But not for the summers we have here. For the Kentucky summers I’ve come to know and love. You wouldn’t think summers are so different on each side of the Atlantic. But they are. In my opinion, there’s no other time of the year when the few cultural differences and the American way of life are more obvious than in the summer months.

This morning, iTunes treated me to a coincidental shuffle of three Dierks Bentley songs in a row. I understand that you may not get this or like this or approve of this. But Come a little closer and Settle for a slowdown – both songs the radio played to death in the summers of 2005 and 2006 – literally make me feel what summer felt like in KY. It’s impossible to explain. It’s really nothing I can describe with words or pictures, it’s a feeling. A melancholic, heavy, heart-breaking feeling, reflecting the uncontainable, inexplicable joy and happiness of my KY time.

I love the cold seasons over here. I forget how much I really miss the Kentucky way of life and I tell myself that life here ain’t so awful, after all. But oho!, LITTLE CHILD!, WILL YOU NEVER LEARN. As soon as summer is on the horizon, I start to remember. Again, I have no words. But there’s just this amazing, AMAZING feeling to KY summers and to what I remember of them and it seriously makes my heart ache. So this morning, I suddenly couldn’t believe I ever abandoned my KY obsession and dared to consider it may have lessened in any way, shape or form. SERIOUSLY, I asked myself, what the fuck happened to Kentucky Fridays?

Kentucky summers mean this to me:

The chirping. After sunset, when it’s still impossibly hot. I would step outside, into that wall of humidity, lie down on the big trampoline way out back, and there were no sounds but the constant chirping and every once in a while, the eerie howls of coyotes on the hill. I miss that.

Swimming in the neighbor’s pool. The blue, soft water; the wooden planks around it too hot to walk on; diving to flee from horse flies. Teaching my host sister Kennedy how to swim; her tiny, squirly body in a big, orange swim west. We’d walk home in our bikinis, scared of snakes and Poison Ivy, dripping wet, tan skin sparkling in the merciless sun. Once back inside, we’d shake in the icy A/C air, in the emptiness of a house that smelled like summer. I miss that.

Wal-mart, rain. Endless rows of pick-ups and SUVs, the sun reflecting from their roofs. The asphalt would be so hot that I could feel it through my flipflops. We’d break a sweat just walking from the car to the entrance. Then: Welcome to Wal-mart!, freezing – again – in the cool, giant space of the store, suddenly raindrops on the high high high ceiling up above, grabbing gum at check-out, Thank you hun!, Have a nice day!, a gush of wind coming in through the exit doors. Rain would be pouring down; pressing down almost. Naked legs against the head lights of a gigantic Dodge; honking; no umbrellas; no more sun. I’d smell the hot asphalt under the cooling water, I’d feel the wind on my skin. Flipflops soaked through within seconds; dark angry thunder; country music radio on the car; windshield wipers back and forth and back and forth; endless winding roads; green trees against the black sky. Back home: naked feet on soft carpet; wet hair smelling of shampoo, wet skin smelling of sun lotion; unpacking groceries. The rain would thin out, the thunder would move on, the water would drip from plants and trees, from patio furniture, from the roof. Minutes later, I’d watch the sun break through the clouds. Minutes later, the patio, yet again, would be too hot to walk on. I miss that.

All this sounds like a random collection of really horrible clichés but trust me. It’s my personal memories of them, the snapshots in my head, that make them so unique and so wonderful. The feeling, the sound, the smell, the taste, the colors. Looking back, everything seems like a perfect movie. And I want to go back and literally somehow capture everything to show you and my friends and family here because how else will anyone ever understand why I can’t let go and why my words mean nothing when I try to explain?