When I was young and little, when the maple tree in the backyard seemed impossible to climb, I started going fishing with my father, and older brothers. I wasn’t aware of it then, but this singular moment would forever be summer for me. The smell of summer at 4am on a hot July morning, is wonderfully unforgettable. The grass. The air. The flowers and trees. My brother throwing up in the car: He did not travel well. The warm salami sandwiches on rye my mother packed the night before. The lake. The worms. My brother throwing up trying to bait a hook. The can of cream soda exploding in the sun. The fish we caught, now in the car, as we headed home. Yep. That was summer. I have tried to recapture these memories, but my wife and kids never really had any interest in getting up at 4am, and I could never get any of them to throw up.