Here We Come To A Turning of The Season (Summer into Fall, 2022)

 Sometime around the last third of July, I decided that August was going to be the beginning of fall. 

Admittedly, this was probably 'round about the time that I was starting to get delirious from acute Summer Reading Program Sickness (There are only so many times you can utter "Yaaaaarrrr! You get ALL YOUR PRIZES! Dig into the treasure chest, enter the raffle, choose your book, and don't forget about loving books!"within a one hour period without this occurring), so I wasn't necessarily using all of my brain. But the bit of my addled brain that was working...kind of...came up with this reasoning:

1. Because Summer Reading Program Ends July 31st, due to children going back to school around August 1st...

2. And thus, reasonably, When children go back to school, it's called "The Fall Semester"

3. Therefore, August 1st is the Fall Semester...

4. In conclusion, August 1st is the beginning of Fall

Does it make sense to any person other than a perimenopausal children's library-manager-bureaucrat whose brain has been absolutely fried by SRP shenanigans, and whose body is absolutely drained by the heat, dear god the heat? Probably not, but whatever. It made sense to me!

And what do you know? August 1st rolled around and...things got better. The first half of July seemed to be filled with a lot of sunny, humid, 90+ degree days; the second half of July was maybe a little better, especially with the SRP finish-line in sight. And August...It wasn't immediately or consistently cooler those first few days, but after that....August has been absolutely charming. Dog Days? No such thing! For the last ten days or so, we've been enjoying days that aren't too humid, and that don't get past the low 80s, and plenty of rain here and there to get rid of the flash-drought-stricken grass. (And also, let's not discount a  more sustainable workload in my professional life.) I've been sleeping with my windows open at night; I've been contemplating going outside for recreational purposes. I've been trying to rebuild my social life and Get Out There, more. And in the mornings, it has almost felt cool. In the evenings, it feels...golden. Gentle. Those are the words that come to mind: golden, gentle evenings, filled with the feeble chirps and creaks and sing-songs of crickets and cicadas, making their racket in defiance of the encroaching empty barrenness of the winter and the dying that inevitably comes with it.

(Okay, I know it's not so anything poetic as summer insects screaming against the coming death; it's got something more to do with them trumpeting their final attempts at mate-reproduce-marry-fuck-kill.)

But here is the thing: each late summer, as I listen to the cicadas and crickets begin to protest their impending doom...I hear an echo of my own encroaching end. I can't be the only one, can I? I can't be the only one realizing that the death of summer is a somehow significant milestone in another year slowly marching its way to its end. The death of summer is the approach towards the fallow months, where I, at least, am prone to taking stock, remembering, honouring my labours, thinking of the people I've met, loved, talked to, yearned for, laughed with, held close, advised, supported, dismissed, scorned, reviled. (Yes, there are even a couple of those.)

These late summer days, as well as the coming autumn, are beautiful gifts, really--and sad gifts--an annual reminder of our own coming harvests and decays and ends, and an annual recollection of the fruitful, endless numbered days that will one day run out. But until they do run out, I'm just gonna sit here drinking my Pumpkin Spice Latte coffee that I found at Wal-Mart last week. 

And if you are judging me for shopping at Wal-Mart, whatevs. Clearly you're not a basic bitch with a poetic soul fighting a losing battle against inflation. 

So I Guess You Call This Autumn (2016 Version)

If I listen to the crickets and cicadas, screaming their songs into the balmy night, I can believe it's summer. And then I realize that their cacophony is quieter than it was, even a week ago.

If I glare up at the sun, blazing in a cloudless blue sky, I have no problems at all believing it's summer. And then I realize that this is probably just an unwelcome late-season heat wave, and will soon pass.

If I catch a whiff of freshly-mown grass, I know it's summer, and that someone, somewhere, is tired from the work of mowing. And then I think of the green lawns that will soon transform into grey, brown ground.

The farmer's market is still showcasing the fresh produce. The students are still wearing shorts and flip-flops. The air-conditioning is still running. The children are still running through the parks, screeching and laughing and playing. But the winter merchandise is out, and people talk excitedly of all the punkin spice everything, and their Christmas plans--even as they think beyond the holidays and contemplate the bleakness of the long, cold winter.

Even though it should still be hot for a good few days after today, this is the last day of summer. This heat wave will pass, and the land will know to do what it has always done--cycle into the dormant time of the year. Retreat, hibernate, hunker down. And very, very soon, autumn will begin in earnest. I welcome this change, as I hope I will welcome every seasonal change. But autumn, especially, I relish. The beginning is always the best--the beginning of a relationship, a vacation, a new home, or, in this case, the season of celebration and unpredictable weather. And so I love autumn the best. And it is almost here.

Good-bye, summer. It's been a long time since I enjoyed you. It's been a long time since I eagerly anticipated you. I loved you, and I will miss you, and I will welcome you again, in the fullness of time. But for now, I believe it is time to welcome my long-lost, much-beloved autumn. I am ready for it--the misty mornings and stormy nights, the brilliant foliage that's here one day and gone the next, the punkin spice lattes and Halloween decorations, the crisp air, the boots and peacoats, the soups and grilled cheese, the traditions. For the first time in 11 years, I get the privilege of experiencing fall. Its life will be brief, and its death will be sudden, but perhaps it's all the sweeter for it.

In so many parts of the country, highways and roads were no doubt choked with traffic, backed up with holiday weekenders driving back from beaches, lakes, mountains, friends's houses. In a way, I was one of those people--driving back from a friend's place, where I had spent my Labor Day bobbing about on a lake, in a pontoon boat. But on the roads I took to return home late last night, I encountered few other cars. That's one of the blessings of where I was staying--it's in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, and so the drive to and from Nowhere is really pretty laid-back. As I drove home to Bloomington, my eyes bounced back and forth from this old barn to that pretty farmhouse to all the cornfields. The high point came at sunset, when the sun turned a perfect orb of molten gold, framed with pink, and slowly sank down behind the cornfields. Unobscured by any clouds, the sun gave its rays until the last possible moment, as though eager to share every second of its warmth and light, knowing its time is running down. 

After that, the twilight deepened, and the shadows became almost indistinguishable from the surrounding countryside. Every now and then, a late-season firefly gave a feeble wink--weaker than the sun's strength, but still holding on to whatever life was left in it. The fields, so recently tinged with the sun, became obscured with eerie fingers of mist. 

Thus ends my first Labor Day back home here in Indiana, and I guess, given that I am now in a four-season climate, this means that summer is over. Sure, it was 90 degrees out yesterday, and will be again tomorrow. Sure, summer lasts for another few weeks. But I think we are approaching the descent into the cold months of the year, and I loved that I book-ended my summer with time spent sunning myself in the cold waters of a lake, surrounded by laughter and the sheer joy of being out-of-doors. 

Without meaning to, I totally had "The Summer of Mel." Picnics and cookouts in parks; new friendships made and old ones strengthened; evenings spent on my back patio blowing bubbles and drinking beer and listening to the dull roar of dozens of A/C units close by; more than one night spent dancing the night away at the neighborhood gay bar. It has been the best summer of my life, despite--or perhaps because of--the lack of an Epic Summer Romance. (Actually, now that I think about it, that's probably why it was the best summer ever!)

The roadside stands are still selling sweet corn--but pumpkins are appearing, too. Folks around town have already decorated their front lawns for Halloween. Some of us are ready for the next season, the death of the year, just as by next February or March, we'll be ready for sunlight and warmth again. 

Good-bye, summer. Thank you for...being you, which is hot and humid but not horrible and suicide-inducing. Thank you for reminding me of the proper magic of your months. I can't wait to meet up with you again. 

So I Guess You Call This Autumn (2015 Version)

Today was totally one of those "fooled you!" kind of days. I could have pretended that it was a gloomy Midwestern fall day, just looking out the window at the leaden-grey skies. Unfortunately, the second I stepped outside, I knew (and felt) the ugly truth: it was 90 degrees with 70% humidity. Just another late summer day in the deserts of Southern California. Still, I indulged in imagining cold air against my skin, gloomy evenings, rain lashing against the windows, pleasantly warm (not oppressively hot) kitchens. Pretty imaginings, and not really anything that could get me too homesick.

But, even so, the homesickness lurks. Yesterday, I gave Duncle a call. It was the first time I had spoken with him since my magical summer vacation, and as soon as I started talking to him, I realized why: the sound of his voice pretty much made me burst into homesick tears.

Today, there was no new news or word from the jobs that I applied to last week. And tonight, no new potential jobs posted. It's easy to just swing into utter despair, but day by torturously long day, I fiercely struggle not to. I will tell myself this as much as I need to, until I accept and believe it: every day I am still "stuck" out here is an opportunity--to retrench financially, to improve my health, to make myself more marketable, to build my character (oooh, goody, another character-building experience), to get all my ducks in a row.

Someday, I will go home. Some day, I will enjoy that chilly fall weather. Who knows? Maybe I will enjoy it with someone. Or not. For now, it is enough for me to strive for this simple, modest thing: a fulfilling job that enables me to go home to Indy and spend the rest of my life there.