Above / From January 2005 to December 2014, Ed Channell wrote a monthly column in print and online for Positively Naperville. Occasionally, at the request of readers, he has penned an update here and there. (PN File Photo)
For the past few months, I’ve been soaking up the endless summer of Sarasota, Florida—a place where the sun doesn’t just shine, it reigns supreme. The Gulf Coast air hums with salt and possibility, the beaches stretch out like a lazy promise, and winter feels like a myth told to scare northerners. But now, as April unfurls, I’ve traded flip-flops for sneakers and returned to Naperville, Illinois, where the seasons still call the shots.
Leaving Sarasota is never easy. There’s a rhythm to life down there that hooks you: morning walks along Siesta Key, the egrets stalking the shallows, the way the horizon swallows the sun each night in a blaze of pink and gold. It’s a bubble of warmth and ease, a temporary escape from the Midwest’s mercurial moods. This year, I watched snowbirds like me flock to the farmers’ markets, haggle over mangoes, and debate the best shrimp shack—myself included. It’s a strange, wonderful limbo, where time slows and the biggest decision is whether to hit the pool or the patio.
But Naperville has its own pull, one Sarasota can’t replicate. Driving back into town, I felt it immediately—the familiar grid of streets, the brick facades, the DuPage River cutting its quiet path through the heart of things. The air here has a crispness that Florida can’t muster, a bite that reminds you the world keeps turning. After months of palm trees, the bare branches of oaks and maples felt like old friends, even if they’re still shaking off winter’s grip. Spring is stirring, though—crocuses are poking through the soil, and the lawns are greening up, ready to reclaim their suburban glory.
The contrast hits hardest in the small stuff. In Sarasota, I’d grown used to the hum of air conditioners and the chatter of geckos darting across porches. Here, it’s the rumble of lawnmowers and the distant chime of the carillon tower. Down south, I’d sip coffee watching pelicans dive-bomb the bay; now, I’m back to cardinals flitting between feeders in my backyard. There’s a groundedness to Naperville that Sarasota, for all its charm, can’t touch—a sense of roots that don’t sway with the next breeze.
Reentry has its hiccups, of course. My wardrobe’s still half-packed with tank tops, useless against the 50-degree mornings. The grocery store feels overwhelming after months of minimalist beach-town hauls. And don’t get me started on the pollen—Florida’s palms don’t wage the same war on my sinuses as Illinois’ budding trees. But there’s comfort in the chaos. Naperville’s bustle—kids biking down Jefferson, the line snaking out of Lou Malnati’s—feels alive in a way that Sarasota’s laid-back vibe never quite manages.
Friends ask if I miss it, and the answer’s yes, but not entirely. Sarasota’s a fling—dazzling, fleeting, a break from reality. Naperville’s home, with all the mess and beauty that implies. Wintering in Florida taught me to savor the slow burn of sunshine, but returning here reminds me why I stay: the rhythm of seasons, the pull of community, the way spring feels earned after months of gray. As I unpack my suitcase and eye the forecast—70 degrees by next week—I realize the trade-off isn’t so bad. Sarasota gave me a reprieve; Naperville gives me a life.
Editor’s Note / Thanks for reading PN in print and online. Print readers will note at the bottom of the page 27: “Ever wonder why Ed Channell thought he needed to try AI?”
