Summer is the season that needs no defense and gets one anyway. Everyone claims to love it, nobody agrees on it, and half the words we use for it secretly mean “to die.” Which is fitting, because by August we’re ready to do so.
Summer, the plain one
Summer is refreshingly boring. Old English sumor, from an ancient root that shows up all over the northern languages meaning, roughly, “summer” or “season.” No goddess, no Latin committee, no drama. Spring got named after leaping metal coils; autumn can’t even decide if it’s fall or autumn or harvest. Summer just showed up, said sumor, and has coasted on that ever since. The most confident season and the least interesting name.
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