My junior high daughter has started doing math for fun, so I guess that summer is coming to a close. Not quite the swallows coming home to Capistrano, but it does indicate that it’s probably time to wrap it up and get ready for the rest of the year.
Summer has been what it always is in the core of the northern hemisphere; dependably warm and lush, tree-wise. It’s strange to think that it’s snowing in Argentina: it’s 37 degrees in Ushuaia right now.
(I did look that up. Ushuaia. I don’t have the southernmost cities of every continent sitting in my mind’s back pocket.)
The crunch of Autumn leaves, the peal of Winter’s bells, and the tweeting of the birds in Springtime have no parallel in summer. Ok, maybe crickets, but they really get going at the end of summer, into the fall, and it’s hard to hear them in the city sometimes.
But I do love the crickets. Apparently those are mating calls, so the whole thing probably sounds like a crowded singles bar from a cricket perspective, but that’s one of the kindnesses of there not being a Babel Fish in my ear (as of yet).
Summer’s not over quite yet. There’s a couple of “dog days” on the way, the heat where my DNA reconsiders its prehistoric choice to leave the protection of the cool deep caves. For those of you already surviving blazing heat, the season may have been a bit too thematic, and you’re waiting for the night you can sleep in the specific silence that happens when the AC isn’t going full blast.
By definition, seasons come and go, that’s the strategy of them, a character arc, plans that evolve into memories, perennial traditions like old friends. Around here, we have just arrived at our annual festival of the summer fruits, which is 49% about eating them, and 51% about singing this song:
“Summer = summer fruits:
it wouldn’t be summer without ‘em!”
The peach. The blueberry. The sensational nectarine. Fruits literally ripe with aroma and flavor, best enjoyed alone (reportedly), yet always so deeply appreciated atop two scoopfuls of vanilla ice cream. Or on a hearty morning bowl of corn flakes. Mmn.
Of course, now we can get peaches in December. Plums in January. Blueberries in March. Where is the anticipation of the season? That delicious last bite for the year, followed by the “I can’t wait until we can have this again!”? The sweet and delicate patience that buffets you through pumpkin spice and peppermint, past snap peas and ramps, back to the sun-drenched sweetness of cherries and berries?
Most theme parks above 1-70 Highway are not open all year - snow and roller coasters don’t go together. Beaches close as well, even though most are technically parks and public land (guards at the ready yet some ne’er do wells attempt an autumn picnic). Here in New York, ice cream shops will turn to soup huts, and dollar store pool noodles will be replaced with sleds. Summer moves along, everywhere, except the produce section of the grocery store.
On television, Summer Replacement Series were supposed to be temporary, you knew that going in, they were experimental and a bit cheeky because they knew that in eight weeks you’d be watching Matlock again in this time slot. My Summer Replacement Series has allowed me a break from heavier topics, issues, and ruminations – I hope it didn’t seem too frivolous, as I’ve enjoyed it very much, and I’ll be finishing the summer in a similar tone. But I may keep a bit of this Sonny and Cher variety show vibe, like a vial of sand from a well groomed beach vacation. Or actually, more like a Dixie cup full of little seashells.
We have to retain a little bit of summer all year round. But just a little.
There is a chain of Christmas stores that is open all year long, not just the three months before the holiday and the month or so after when everyone is looking on a “good deal” for next year’s decorations. Nope, they are open in June. Some stock flags for the 4th of July and jack-o-lanterns in October, but the purists remain, noël three-six-five, anticipating the tourist desperately longing for that August nutcracker.
But unlike calendar based holidays, seasons are always happening. We can keep a little bit of the summer because it’s always summer somewhere on the planet… the mystery of the hemispheres. I realized yesterday that every single Winter Olympics has been held in “winter” in the Northern hemisphere. That’s so hemispherist. We could hold them in August if we went to Ushuaia. Or La Paz. That’s in Bolivia. I looked that up too.
Latitude.