How We Spend Summer Between Alabama and Oregon

A look at the rituals, routines, and outdoor living that shape our bi-coastal summer.

Summer is my season. It’s the one I look forward to all year, the season I build my year around, stretch out, try to savor as long as possible. Our summers have a good rhythm. One part Deep South, one part Pacific Northwest. And even though those two places couldn’t feel more different on the surface, what I’ve realized is that I carry the same rituals with me in both.

We spend about a month every summer in Alabama with my parents, and then we return to Portland for the rest of the season, my parents actually come with us, which gives them a little reprieve from the late-summer Alabama heat. The South has its summer magic, the screened-in porches, the smell of cut grass, the golf cart rides to the pool. And then the Pacific Northwest… well, it’s just heaven in the summer. There’s no other way to put it. It basically drizzles from October to June, but once July hits, the sun comes out and doesn’t stop until September. Not a drop of rain. And because of all that earlier rain, the gardens absolutely explode.

So it’s become our ritual to shift from one kind of summer to another. The first half of summer belongs to Alabama. We stay with my parents, and from the moment we arrive, the pace just slows. Everything revolves around their screened-in porch. We don’t eat a single meal in the dining room the whole time we’re there, every meal happens outside on that porch, on my mom’s china, under the ceiling fan. That porch isn’t just a porch, it’s the dining room, the living room, the heart of the house in the summer.

Some people (my parents and Alex) head for the air-conditioning during the hottest part of the day, but not me. I stay put in the sun, right there on the porch with a fan blowing. It’s my favorite spot.

Our days have a familiar rhythm. Golf cart rides to and from the pool, snow cones, iced coffee from the quirky coffee shop in town. Even though I grew up in Mississippi, not Alabama, the smells are the same, freshly cut grass, heat, humidity. The smell of Southern summer. It’s distinct.

And then there are the yearly traditions we never skip: the farm where my son rides horses, the beach days, the same roadside amusement park that isn’t nice at all, the same worn-out rides. This year, we added something new, my son went to summer camp in Mississippi, part of the same Episcopal camp community I grew up in. Which, if you know the South, you know how strong that camp culture is.

And that’s the beauty of the Southern part of our summer. It’s hot, it’s humid, it’s nostalgic. It’s perfect.

When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, the hydrangeas stopped me in my tracks. They grow like weeds here. They’re practically invasive. Every yard has them. Giant, exploding bushes of color, big as beach balls, lining sidewalks and spilling over fences. And all I could think was: this is every Southern gardener’s dream.

Back home, everyone works so hard on their hydrangeas, watering at the right time of day, testing their soil, crossing their fingers for the blooms to come in just right. And here? They just grow. No effort.

So we went all in. We planted different varieties across our yard, limelights, the deep purple ones, the white ones. In the PNW they bloom later in the season and they carry us from July through fall. They hit their peak a little later than they do in the South. Down South, you’re getting your best blooms in June. But in the PNW, the limelights really shine in August, when we get home from Alabama and walk into a yard full of hydrangeas just coming into their moment. It’s a pretty nice landing.

By the time we get back to Oregon, the skies are warm and bright, but the evenings are cool, and we sort of... cosplay a Southern summer all over again.

Of course, it’s not the same. There’s no humidity, no cicadas. You don’t need a screened-in porch because the bugs aren’t bad like they are down South. But there’s a way to bring that same feeling here, slow mornings, outdoor meals, flowers on the table, music playing, everything just a little slower and less structured.

My husband grew up in the PNW, and I love that he and our son are now forming summer memories down South every summer and then bringing pieces of that pace and style back to Portland, where the heat is never unbearable, and the days are long and golden.

I’ve realized the second half of summer doesn’t have to feel like you’re holed up in the house escaping the heat. It can feel like an extension. A second act.

Our backyard becomes the main character of summer in Portland, just like my parents’ screened-in porch. We’ve fully committed to turning it into our most-used living space during these three perfect months. The deck sits right off the kitchen, and there’s a big window that opens out to it, so whoever’s cooking or refilling drinks can pass things through and chat with whoever’s outside. It feels like one big space.

We don’t have a screened-in porch, but we’ve got a wide deck and a pergola, and we really do treat it like a true room of the house. We upgraded the old outdoor dining table and replaced it with something bigger this year. Something that seats more people. In years past, the table was in direct sun, which meant we mostly used it for dinners, but this year I want it to function all day, me on my laptop, my son doing puzzles, snacks, conversation, everything. So we moved it into the shade.

We’re adding cabana curtains to the pergola, which I know will need to go into storage once the season ends, but I don’t care. For summer, I want that breezy, poolside feeling. We’ve rearranged the Adirondack chairs, too. No longer in a circular fire pit set-up, but in a semi-circle facing the flowers. Still good for conversation, but better for the view.

And then the details. The rituals that make it feel like summer. Hydrangeas from the yard in arrangements on the table. Brass candlesticks. Tapered candles. Tablecloths. China. I don’t mess with outdoor furniture that lives outside all year, it all goes up in the winter anyway, so I use vintage indoor dining chairs and bring them out for the season. We eat outside for every meal. If we’re sitting, we’re outside.

And this year, we’re adding a wind chime. One with a deeper chime because that’s what Alex loves. My mom has one in her backyard. It’s not an exclusively Southern thing, but it’s deeply nostalgic.

The older I get, the more I realize that what I’ve always craved about summer, what I try to recreate now, whether I’m in Alabama or Oregon, is the freedom. It’s the sense of intentionality, the slower pace, the dilly-dailiness of it all.

And for me, it’s the living outside part that makes it all perfect. That’s the lifestyle I struggle the most to recreate in the Pacific Northwest the rest of the year. When it’s dark and wet for nine months, there’s no real outdoor living, no daily porch routine, no endless outdoor meals. In Texas, winter could feel like an extended Southern fall, a season where you still eat on patios in January. Here, the shift is more dramatic. Summer doesn’t fade, it shuts off. We don’t love that.

I guess the real takeaway is that I want more of summer living in all seasons. I want to keep finding ways to slow things down, to treat my days like they’re worth arranging around a table or a communal lounge space. That doesn’t mean faking summer all year, although honestly, I would if I could.

But maybe it does mean taking more trips South in the winter. Or just being more intentional with rituals, with pretty things, with the small pleasures that make a regular Tuesday feel more special.

And as I write this in the breezy golden hour on the porch, looking out over the garden, I think—ahhh, who are you kidding? Summer is the best. There’s just no way around it.