Summer sounded better in the ‘70s.
I woke every morning to the birds chirping outside my window screen, a dewy chill in the air. I’d smell my father’s pipe, which he smoked while he read the paper downstairs. I’d go down to greet him. He’d make scrambled eggs and toast covered with butter, and we’d eat while the birds kept on singing.
The evening sounds were equally powerful: a dog b...