Redeeming the Summer of George
Lake swims, lots of linen, & fistfuls of sand
Welcome to Fresh Grapes! First, thank you to everyone who sent me kind notes of encouragement regarding this new creative endeavor. I’m excited about having a low stakes venture aimed at imperfect fun that will evolve as I get deeper into the swing of things. I appreciate you coming along for the ride.
So it’s August and the above film still is my vision board for each and every summer: getting perfectly bronzed at the beach while wearing a stylish, punchy wardrobe. (In this scenario I’m also cheerful, carefree Gwyneth, before the suspicions of infidelity, stalking, and murder ruin her Italian getaway. We need to ignore the dark aspects of The Talented Mr. Ripley for this idealization to work.) My fantasy of summer is centered on daily swims, the luxurious texture of sand between my toes, love affairs with produce at peak flavor, getting that healthy sun-kissed glow, and feeling chic whenever I wear linen. I want to spend my days outside basking in the fresh air as much as possible. Given that I currently live in Virginia and the summers are a swampy mess that I’m just not cut out for, I worried that I was deep into a Summer of George. Big plans of leisure with little realization. I had spent far too much time in air conditioning because I can’t swing the intense heat of the south.
While at a barbeque on July 1st, I chatted with a very hip Brooklynite who bemoaned that summer was nearly over, arguing that August doesn’t count as summer because they spend it focused on the depressing fact that summer is just about over. Though they do lightly dabble in beginning this activity in early July. Regardless of the classic markings of summer found at that barbeque, I kind of agreed. June was somehow completely lacking in swims. I had just barely experienced my coveted beach days. And I was wearing a lot of linen, but sweating so much I hardly felt chic.
I was desperate for my redemptive arc. The depths of winter are much more tolerable when you know you had a proper summer.
And so, I am relishing every single day of August spent in northern Michigan where the temperature rarely peaks above 75 degrees and there’s very little humidity. I’m writing from my parents’ deck which sits adjacent to a handful of tennis courts, so those little shoe scuffs, grunts, and racket swings are my soundtrack beyond a few birds and the rustling of trees. (The score is currently 40-15 for all you who didn’t ask.) It’s a casual five minute walk through the woods to the shores of Lake Michigan, where I have been gleefully diving into the water just about every day of this glorious, very much still summer, month of August.
There are few things I love more in this life than swimming in Lake Michigan. The water is always brisk, even in July and August, making your skin tingle as you adjust to the change in temperature. Unless there’s been a storm, the water is so ridiculously clear you can see straight to the bottom. Some days it even appears a very Caribbean turquoise hue. And while I know the water in Scandinavia is surely cleaner than the Great Lakes, I always feel like I’m swimming in a fresh Nordic fjord.
A lifetime of summers in northern Michigan make me biased, but I still want to honor the fact that these swims feel sacred. They’re consistently capable of exiling me from crabby moods or further uplifting an already pleasant day. Beach walks are often punctuated by swims, as the gentle lapping of water at my feet acts like a siren, daring me to leave the shore. The afternoon I went for a walk without a suit under my clothes made me feel like such an amateur. I have not made that mistake again.
Each swim consists of a ritual moment of hesitation in the few seconds before I fully submerge my body. Despite knowing the joy I will experience with that initial dive underwater, there will undoubtedly be a moment where I question if I can really do it. But I always will. Because I cannot just dip into Lake Michigan. I need to dive in and become engulfed by the water. My body gets used to the icy temperature surprisingly fast and anything that was consuming my mind washes away.
Maybe that’s the key element of the whole experience: that I tend to be entirely present when I swim in the lake. This isn’t lap swimming or seeking the benefits of exercise, but rather an exuberant regression into the aimless play of childhood. I hold my breath and take countless strokes beneath the surface, marveling at the near silence. I do handstands with ease, grabbing fistfuls of sand and twirling as I come up for air. My arthritic body is free from pain while I experience strength that eludes me elsewhere. I float and have no concept of time. These swims function as my own personal form of meditation. They’re purely for pleasure and incredibly healing.
In the midst of writing this, I took a late afternoon break to swim with my dear friend Caroline. We ran into the lake with the same reckless abandon we had when we met as teenagers. The waves were uncharacteristically huge as we were in the water an hour before a Beach Hazard Statement went into effect with warnings of six foot waves, strong currents, and dangerous swimming conditions. Yes, in some respects we were being a little reckless. But also, neither of us could remember a more spectacular swim.
Wherever you are, I hope you are able to rejoice in a swim that elevates your mood and allows you to feel joyously alive. Even if only for a few minutes, because those are truly marvelous minutes.
Cheers to the summer perfection that is August.
— Katie
Like Gwyneth, I ”only ever wanted to be someone who recommended things.” Not really, but still, I love a recommendation. Those given, and those received. And so, here are a few things I’ve savored recently that you may enjoy as well.
Tom Lake by Ann Patchett. Like all of Ann’s work, it’s transportive, poignant, and beautifully written. It primarily takes place in northern Michigan, cutting between a cherry orchard in 2020 and a summer stock theater program in 1988. The two timelines are woven together with Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, endless cherry picking, and inquisitive daughters forming the backbone of a tale about the seemingly inconsequential choices that build a life.
Julia Gets Wise with Ruth Reichl. Julia’s newish podcast is such a delight. Every single episode is incredible which feels rare in the podcasting universe. This episode, in which she chats with legendary food writer Ruth Reichl, is an all around knockout conversation punctuated with tidbits of life and writing advice that helped me finally get this first newsletter written in the first place.
Casamara Club’s Sera Amaro Club Soda. They had me at “leisure soda.” Yes, I’m an easy mark, but this delivered. Highly recommend sipping while at the beach. Or near any body of water. It just won’t taste the same in air conditioning.
Sippin’ Green Gazpacho. I’ve made this gazpacho at least six times in the past few weeks. I’m somewhat addicted to the refreshing taste of it around 4:00 each afternoon and entirely okay with this new summer habit.
Transatlantic. This stylized retelling of the Emergency Rescue Committee’s efforts to get refugees out of occupied France in 1940 is incredibly moving and surprisingly uplifting for a WWII story. I’m still thinking about particular scenes — like a surrealist birthday party for Max Ernst full of wild handmade costumes — that underline the joy and levity that is still possible amid a terrifying situation.
Perfect!