Bittersweet Summer (Nickoloff)

The summer solstice always feels bittersweet to me. It’s the official mark of summer in Cleveland -- the tiny slice of the year where “Cleveland weather” isn’t some kind of joke. But, being the longest day of the year, it’s a reminder that the days will only get shorter from here. A looming thought that in a few months, the sun will rise while I’m at work and set before I leave. In a few months, I won’t be able to open my apartment windows to the chilly air outside.

If anything could make that bittersweet taste more bitter than sweet, it’s the pandemic.

Last year on the summer solstice, I worked my way through a crowd of colorfully dressed partiers at the Cleveland Museum of Art for the annual Solstice Party. I stood in line in a crowded restroom, danced next to strangers, shared a drink with friends -- an unbelievable scene, looking back from this forever-hand-sanitized vantage point. I mean, seriously -- just think of the germs!

This year, I celebrated the summer solstice with a long evening walk around my neighborhood. I watched the sun set, then watched the bright blue sky shift to navy, waiting for all traces of light to fade. Street lights popped on, clouded by gnats and mosquitoes. When I passed a fellow nighttime walker, I trekked into the grass, giving plenty of room so our breaths wouldn’t mix.

Right now, most aspects of last year’s life feel impossible, like some kind of fever dream I imagined.

Maybe, someday, 2020 will feel like some kind of fever dream, too.

But it hasn’t all been missed opportunities this summer. Some sweet moments are starting to pop up with more frequency, along with the bitter ones.

A few weeks after the summer solstice passed, I put on a face mask and went to my grandmother’s house to make her dinner on the Fourth of July. When the sun set and fireworks started booming in her neighborhood, we hustled to her back porch and saw a sky filled with bursts of light.

We sat outside for a good half hour, watching neighbors on all sides put on their own private fireworks shows in the streets. Some of these fireworks were big -- I mean, bigger than what you can probably legally purchase in the state of Ohio.

More than the size (or legality) of the fireworks, I was struck by how many of them there were. I had never seen so many fireworks in the sky at one time; no matter where you turned, you saw twirling sparks and flowering blooms of light.

And smaller displays -- kids across the street running around their driveways with sparklers, throwing snappers on the sidewalk. Music booming from some family gathering a couple of blocks away. The smell of campfire and barbecue smoke.

Private celebrations, everywhere.

This was an odd Fourth of July, one that stood apart from parties or family cookouts or even the year we went to Washington DC to check out patriotic festivities at the Mall.

Still, out of all the American flag-fueled memories, this quiet night with my grandma -- seeing her smile lit up by the red and blue fireworks crackling in the sky over her backyard -- now stands out as a highlight, a burst of color in a year that’s otherwise washed into gray.

Anne Nickoloff is a life and culture reporter at cleveland.com, where she covers local music, dining and arts scenes in Northeast Ohio -- where she was born and raised. She also hosts an indie radio show called "Sunny Day" on Friday mornings on WRUW-FM 91.1 Cleveland.