The Istoriaphile’s Corner

We’ve officially moved into the Summer Season, the one we dream of during the dreary, wet days of February and the long brutal nights of Winter.  The thermometer has begun it’s annual low boil of mercury, keeping the glass over the 90 degree mark opaque but I am not complaining.  This is a glorious time of year, when the earth seems to spill over with an abundance of living things and I am its eager audience.  More than any other, Summer is a season of scents for me and a single whiff sends me into a cascade of memories eternally tied to this season. Lilac I grew up in a two bedroom house, unprepossessing in appearance.   Between the patchy lawn and the faded exterior, it would never draw the eye except for 10 days every year when the wall of lilac surrounding the house blossomed.  For the rest of the year the bushes were just as a privacy fence between us and the neighbors, but each year, between May 1 and my birthday, they burst into glorious bloom, drowning the block in scent and turning our wren-brown house into a thing of beauty, framed by that delicate color. In the…