Where I’m Writing From: Summer eli.cranor@gmail.com May 21, 2023 Eli Cranor is the critically acclaimed author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs. Cranor can be reached using the “Contact” page at elicranor.com and found on Twitter @elicranor

I’m writing from the first day of summer.

This isn’t an exact science. In fact, I don’t think the “real” first day of summer actually falls in May (I should’ve probably Googled it), but that’s not what I’m trying to write about.

This is the same thing Ray Bradbury was talking about in “Dandelion Wine” when he said the sound of lawnmowers firing up across his neighborhood, the smell of fresh-cut grass — those were his summer signals.

For me, it’s the lake.

There’s a certain smell to it when the days grow longer and hotter. A little fishier, maybe. Something similar to the Gulf, which is where I was last week, a town near Tampa I’d never been before called St. Petersburg. The day before that I was in Miami.

The salt air was thick and warm. That smell was everywhere. It felt like cheating, a preview of days to come. I hadn’t been that far south since my freshman year of college when I went off to play quarterback for the Florida Atlantic Owls.

There’s a Raymond Carver short story called, “So Much Water So Close to Home.” If Carver were writing about my first year of college, he might’ve entitled that story, “So Many Universities So Close to Home.”

Boca Raton was a world away from Russellville.

But I went, partly because I wanted to play for Howard Schellenberger, partly because there was an ocean down there, six miles to the east of the campus. For a boy who’d grown up listening to his dad’s Jimmy Buffett cassettes, the water’s pull was strong.

“Mother, Mother Ocean, I have heard your call…”

Though my stay in Boca lasted only one season, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. I swam almost every day, went surf fishing after practice and out to the clubs on weekends. One time, I attended a house party where a linebacker named Cergile mixed his infamous “Hunch Punch” in a five-gallon Gatorade jug.

I was the only Arkansawyer on the roster. I wore boots and Razorback caps. I grew my hair down past my shoulders. I longboarded to class. I made some good friends, too. Guys I still keep up with.

One of those guys met me in St. Pete last week. It’d been fifteen years since our last encounter, a one-night jaunt to Ginnie Springs where we snorkeled all day and drank all night, then woke up the next morning and said our goodbyes.

Things were different this time around.

We both had kids. I’d lost my hair and was about forty pounds lighter than when I’d played ball. But the important parts were the same. The bond that we’d formed all those seasons ago was still there.

The years fell away as we told stories we’d almost forgotten and the breeze blew in off the bay, carrying with it that same scent that always signals summer, connecting the ocean to the lake I now call home.