鈥淭he South鈥檚 Summer is the heart of Summer. Those ribbony afternoons of childhood (it is the children who stir in afternoons) live in our memory; I think the memory of every Southerner lies fixed in summertime. From the beginning of our lives, it seems, we knew the big, slow month-after-month turning of sights and sounds and scents, the kaleidoscope of pleasures in the duress of heat 鈥� the swimming of ice in china pitchers of tea or lemonade, ceiling fans wheeling on porches, punkahs in the oldest houses in stately back-and-forth above the long table, fans in the hand, church fans, party fans, silk and feather and ivory fans, old ladies black fans, children鈥檚 fans, on chains that went around the neck.鈥�
