How’s Your Summer?

By Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence

It’s the question I get asked most often these days, usually by someone I haven’t seen since the weather turned warm: “How’s your summer?”

It’s a polite ritual, a seasonal small talk prompt, and while there’s rarely much depth behind the question, I still find myself scrambling for a more inspired answer than: “Same as the other seasons, just hotter and slightly quieter.”

And the truth is…that’s exactly how it is.

Even here in our wooded corner of the Five Towns, people still escape to “the country.” And “the country” can mean a lot of things: beautiful sprawling homes that put your full-time residence to shame, or a ramshackle structure that makes you question why you voluntarily packed your family and belongings into the car to spend the summer in what looks like the set of a horror film.

I grew up in the latter.

Our summer spot was a one bedroom, one bathroom bungalow that could have easily appeared in a low-budget Stephen King flick. It had wood paneling, paper-thin walls, and a floor that creaked in pain with every step.

Yet—we loved it.

We didn’t have a big house to begin with, so this tumbledown shack somehow became our wood-paneled oasis. My mother ran the show during the week, solo-parenting at a time before the term existed, while my father joined us on Thursdays and left again on Sundays.

As a mother myself now, I think about her a lot, especially when I imagine those summer nights. Kids running around well past sunset. No screens. No schedules. No real sense of bedtime. Just a flashlight, a pack of friends, and the complete confidence that someone—anyone—was watching.

Our bungalow colony had its usual cast of characters, many of whom returned year after year. Some of them still do. They come now with their children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren. I’ve visited the place in recent years and seen some of the upgrades—the new siding, the added square footage—and many times, the comparison that comes to mind is a facelift gone slightly awry.

But none of that really matters.

Because when you’re there, what hits you isn’t what the place looks like, but how it makes you feel.

There’s something about “the country” that changes the rules. People leave their year-round stress behind and show up ready to reconnect: with nature, with each other, and with some version of themselves they forgot existed.

In those bungalow colonies, the friends you summered with became more like family. There’s a shared history. You watched each other’s kids grow up. You celebrated milestones together. You supported each other through loss. There’s something sacred in that kind of community.

Bedtime is a suggestion, not a requirement. Everyone looks out for each other’s children. And there’s a kind of unspoken agreement that these months are different: looser, lighter, softer.

Of course, all of this is mostly hindsight now. I haven’t summered upstate in over 30 years. But I’d bet there are still colonies like the one I grew up in, places where the pull of tradition is stronger than the peeling of paint or outdated kitchens.

Do I regret not giving it a try as an adult? Absolutely.

But I carry those summers with me.

I carry the sound of laughter long after dark, the smell of charcoal drifting through the trees, the feeling of bare feet on dusty roads, and screen doors slamming shut behind me. I carry the memory of my mother doing it all, yet somehow making it feel like a vacation.

So, when someone asks me, “How’s your summer?”

I might still say, “Same as the other seasons—only hotter.”

But I’m usually thinking of something else entirely. 

Malkie Gordon Hirsch Magence is a native of the Five Towns community, a mom of five, a writer, and a social media influencer.