CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Summer sounds like flip-flops.

Tastes like watermelon.

Smells like Coppertone.

Summer is shaking sand from your towel and being sticky and licking fast around the cone before it drips.

It's blowing bubbles, and dandelions, and kisses.

Summer is feet in the water off the edge of a dock.

Jumping waves.

Diving for pennies.

Splashing and dunking and a stomach sore from belly flops.

Hopping on your heels, hoping for that warm release of water trapped in your ear.

"This isn't reading like a column," my husband -- an editor by profession -- says to me at this point, his finger marking his place. "What exactly are you trying to do here?"

"I don't know," I say, spinning around in my chair. "I got up so early, had the window open, the fan going. All the smells keep reminding me of things -- summer things."

Like the way summer tastes like hose water and feels like peach juice running down your arm and the burn of salt in your nose.

How it's all about bee stings on bare feet, Solarcaine on shoulders, grass-stained knees. Mud between happy toes.

Summer smells like honeysuckle and chlorine and burgers cooking on the grill. It sounds like bullfrogs and the squeak-clank of swing chains going almost -- but never quite -- so high that they wrap.

Summer is marshmallow torches and blistered black hot dogs and popsicles broken in half. It's sweet tea sipped on a porch. Chalk drawings on sidewalks. Lightning bugs in jars.

"You're clearly having a better summer than most people," Geoff said. He waved me away from my keyboard, then sat down and typed:

"Summer is bird nests in flower pots and wasp nests on windows and yellow jacket nests where you can't help but mow."

I followed his lead.

Summer smells like moist mongrels and damp dumpsters and a wet load of laundry that's lingered too long.

Summer is poster board on phone poles, tents in backyards, a warm spot in the pool.

It's tumbles of shed dog fur drifting along baseboards; straightened hair that goes curly; curled hair that goes straight.

It's a time for forgetting grudges and chores and appointments, but not so much for forgetting the milk on the back seat of your car.

Summer is like breathing air straight from the hair dryer, sticking to car seats, becoming a gallon blood donor by way of mosquito.

It's the hours you spend running your fingers through your hair after hearing someone say "tick."

The smell of melted crayons. The cost of melted lipstick.

The storms that appear out of nowhere minutes after you've paid a nonrefundable admission at a water park.

Summer is when you want to fall asleep to the sound of crickets outside, rather than the single soloist insect somewhere in your house.

Summer is almost half over.

It might be hard to see now, through the shimmer of heat, but sneaking along behind are wood smoke, outdoor bleachers, warm soup and the crunch of fallen leaves under your feet.

Reach Karin Fuller at karinful...@gmail.com.