in summer, i don’t write about summer things. but i don’t write about winter things either. it’s only when the wind is blowing like razors across my cheeks that i can’t seem to stop thinking about those lazy days that roll out long and hot; the sun beaming new freckles directly on my shoulders for me to take inventory of later.

when we were kids we used to hunt frogs and crawdads in the pond near my uncle’s house every summer. he’d barbecued them. we’d clomp around ankle deep in water and reeds and shorts and tennis shoes with water seeping between our toes so that, when we came out again our steps would say, “shuuush shuuuush shuuuush shuuuush.”

our uncle was called “Mustard” but i’m not sure why. i don’t remember his real name or if he even had one. he was always mustard to me. we’d bring him giant frogs and crawdads to clean and throw on the grill along with the burgers and steaks and hotdogs. the crowds were huge. not the crowds of frogs and crawdads, but the crowds of people gathering for the bbq.

we named our frogs first. we petted them and gave them baths down at the pond. we knew they were to be eaten and accepted that. bbq frog legs that came steaming and tender off the grill were not the same as the frog called “Bob” or “Nanook” or “Teddy the Incredible Jumping Bean” we had just captured at the pond. it was not the same. it was, but it wasn’t. we separated ourselves from it somehow.

crawdads, we didn’t care so much. they were ugly and insect-like and had no soul. no character. they couldn’t jump comically and make you want to fall in love with them. they couldn’t break your heart laying there on the grill. there was no crawdad named “Teddy the Incredible anything.”

winters make me want to put on keds and jump in ponds full of frogs and crawdads. cold razor-winds make me long for the hot, sticky, humid south carolina summer air. i want to tie my hair back with a ribbon and go galavanting through that pond near mustard’s acres. i want a good old-fashioned frog hunt. i’d like to find a great big one and name him “Gus the Galloping Wonder” then listen to my shoes shushshushshuuush when i climb out, wet from the knees down, and plop down on the shore. i’d like to lay in the grass and pet him awhile before turning him over for the sacrifice. then i want to wander among all those ghosts from my past. the way i used to do. when i was small enough to be able to hide behind skirts and the tall-legged men telling their tall tales. just wander among them and listen to them talking and laughing, eating and drinking one more time, at one more summer bbq.