It’s March in Chicago, which means it’s a cold & windy 31 degrees. Or 65 and sunny. No wait it snowed yesterday. Actually that was a thunderstorm. I’m so confused. Why do we live here again? Have you heard of a little something called “Summertime Chi?!” Ahh, yes!
I can almost hear the sound of school-free children running around the block catching fireflies.
I can almost see the bright, bold colors of the fireworks shooting off the lake.
I can almost smell the tropical scent of sunscreen.
I can almost feel the sticky, humid July air.
I can almost taste the luxurious flavors of Black Dog Gelato.
Why isn’t it Wednesday boat night?
Sigh. Because it’s Friday and it’s March; even if Chicago has a confusing way of showing it. However, with Fridays comes the weekend. A time for family or friends, plans or couches. A time for waking up with the sun or ignoring the alarm. A time for porch hangs, night walks, and Dairy Queen diners.
As I sit with my favorite seven year old stud, listening to his rendition of Hamilton, I can’t help but mosey back to Dairy Queen diners and my grandma. Mama: the queen of dairy. The sweetest little thing with the strongest heart and the simplest taste in dessert. One large vanilla cone. For being the daintiest of humans, she could demolish a bowl of ice cream before you even decided what to order (Oreo blizzard is the only option of course).
It’s funny how these itty bitty slices of life melt out of your head so easily, as if your Mama is taking that night walk with you. Even in 31 degree weather because…ice cream (like grandmas)…defies all seasons.