Last summer the lizards loved to relax on my front porch fiddle-leaf fig.
When we moved to Summerville five years ago, I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to summer.
There were the lizards. Every time I opened the front door, one would dart across the porch and I'd jump like I'd seen something much larger. Now? I smile when I see them. We've reached an understanding. They take care of the bugs I really don't want around, and I let them continue their tiny neighborhood patrols uninterrupted.
Then there are the August thunderstorms. The first summer we lived here, the afternoon skies seemed to change in an instant. Sunshine one minute, dark clouds the next. The thunder wasn't the slight rumble I'd grown up with…it shook the windows. The rain came sideways. The lights flickered just enough to make you wonder if dinner would actually finish cooking. Now those storms have become part of the rhythm of August. There's something oddly comforting about hearing the first distant rumble while you're wrapping up dinner or watching the kids play inside. You know it's coming. You know it'll probably be over in thirty minutes. You know there's at least a decent chance the power might blink off for a bit.
The heat took the longest to understand. At first, I fought it. I'd plan outings in the middle of the afternoon be miserable. I'd complain about sweating before I even reached the mailbox. Then I learned the unwritten rules of a Lowcountry summer.
Get outside early if you can.
If you can't, find shade.
If you're outside long enough, you're going to sweat—and that's okay. Stop pretending you're going to stay dry.
Early morning walks before the heat settles in.
Splash pads if you're going to attempt being outside in the afternoon.
Around here, no one expects you to look perfectly put together in August. We all know the humidity has other plans. Once I stopped trying to beat the weather and started working with it, summer became a lot more enjoyable.
Summer here has taught me that every place has its own personality. The Midwest has temperate summers and crisp autumns. New England has brilliant foliage and snow filled winters. And the Lowcountry? It has humidity that fogs your sunglasses the moment you step outside, thunderstorms dramatic enough to pause conversation, and tiny green lizards that eventually become friends.
Those things that once felt strange have slowly become familiar. And the familiar has become appreciated. Maybe that's what happens when a place starts to feel like home. You stop wishing it were different and start appreciating it for exactly what it is.
So here's to Summerville summers. To the storms that remind us we can't control everything. To the sweat that proves we spent the day outside instead of watching it through a window. To the lizards standing guard on our porches. And to another summer that, without me even realizing it, has become part of the story of home. Because somewhere along the way, I stopped enduring Summerville summers and I fully embraced them.