If time were a mansion, the first day of summer would be a covered, wraparound front porch. 

The place in the house to take in the sunset and golden-hour magic; to sit in a rocking chair and hear the sounds of crickets and cicadas, laughing children and the neighbor's sprinklers. 

The place where safety could mingle with danger and a rollicking thunderstorm could be seen and heard up close, wind gusts carrying in sheets of rain just moist enough to be thrilling. 

The place where, at dawn, the pierc...