The Lovin’ Spoonful had it right: “Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin' dirty and gritty. Been down, isn't it a pity? Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city. All around, people lookin' half dead, walkin' on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head…”

So, I’m inviting you on a walk down a wooded memory lane, green leaves from oaks, beech, maples, hickory shading us. Sunlight slanting through the branches in early evening. Curving road into the lush distance. A Michigan forest walk.

The location? Could be off Adams Road (in the olden days), or up north anywhere, even at the end of neighborhood streets.

Where I live now, flocks of ibises pick through lawns for bugs and grubs, the adults snow-white, the babies dark, the in-betweeners patchy. Tall, elegant sand hill cranes stroll in pairs, followed by two babies. Lizards dart in the heat, air sizzling by afternoon. Distant thunder rumbles, promising rain.

I miss real grass—perennial ryegrass, Kentucky bluegrass—and the sound of lawn mowers. Weeping willows over ponds and lakes. White birch surrounded by cinnamon ferns, which I called “deer ferns” as a child. Whenever I saw patches of white birch, I’d stare out the car window looking for does and fawns.

I miss the sound of robins singing. Lake Michigan beaches, from the inviting Lake Michigan sand to the crashing waves of Lake Superior. In my next life, I want to live in a lighthouse overlooking the wild inland sea of Lake Superior, with supplies delivered, electricity, a coffeemaker, and the internet, of course.

Picnicking along the Clinton River in the Heights or Rochester Hills, enjoying the parks around the clear river, and sharing the memory of cider and doughnuts from Yates Cider Mill.

Slowing down on Orchard Lake Road to take in the beauty of Apple Island, a green jewel in Orchard Lake, Orchard Lake Village. I know Chief Pontiac isn’t buried there, as I believed for years, but I’m certain his spirit resides over the historic island.

I remember my first sight of Kirk in the Hills on Long Lake Road in Bloomfield Hills. I was on my way to Cranbrook Science Museum and nearly drove off the road at the sight. The enormous limestone church with its majestic carillon bell tower looked as though it had been dropped from Scotland, a Gothic abbey.

I miss the first sound of spring peepers from the Second Woods. I miss dandelions and lilacs, cherries, and camping.

The first sign of a thunderstorm with leaves blowing backward and birds scattering. Dave would hurry to start fresh coffee so we could watch the storm from our front porch as it rolled along Caroline Street, heading east.

Wild tiger lilies, rhubarb, catnip, black walnuts, and what our son David and his friends called “honey honey pickers,” horse chestnuts with their weapon-like spikes.

Glimpses of the white deer at the edge of Meadowbrook. Dreaming of living in the gatehouse. Shopping at Meadowbrook Mall. And we haven’t even left summer for the fall festivals, School Hills sledding, Halloween flares and trick-or-treating between 6p and 7p.

Summer in the Heights and around Michigan is treat enough.

I hear thunder rumbling. Think I’ll start a fresh pot of coffee.