March 29, 2024
Column

Summer draws to a close – once again

The wind changed to northeast over the weekend, and suddenly summer was over. Poof, like dandelion spores blown by a child, it just went away.

Down by the shore, rose hips are red ripe, and the sea heather is fading from purple to gray. Goldenrod has replaced pink and purple columbine, and the crows have plucked from the tree the last of the cherries.

Yesterday, it was Memorial Day; now Labor Day looms close, like Mars. And, we’ve yet to pull down the hammock from the garage rafters and hang it where it belongs in summertime, in the shade of spruce trees.

Time has sped by on Jet Skis, and our lament has been, “haven’t got round to it.”

Haven’t picked all the blueberries down in the field. Haven’t been in the boat but a handful of times. Haven’t eaten lobster but once. Haven’t smelled the mackerel running in the inner harbor. Haven’t been yard saling. Haven’t skipped rocks across the water. Haven’t kept the bird feeders filled. Haven’t gathered mussels. Haven’t searched for sea glass.

There were summers, we recall, when we’d swim for hours in the millstream or walk quietly through the woods noticing each subtle shade of moss, lichen or fern. Or we’d slush through the flats at low tide for a picnic on the island. Or we’d sit on a friend’s porch all afternoon, chatting and watching joggers, bikers and dog-walkers.

Not this summer for some reason. It just melted too quickly – like an ice-cream cone held by a toddler – and was gone.

The older we grow, the faster goes the time. We seem to look once and see blossoms and the next minute, apples. Maybe that’s not true of everyone, as Shakespeare described in “As You Like It”:

“Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I’ll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.”

We haven’t stood, or sat still, but time has certainly galloped along these recent days. And, now the August days are growing ever shorter.

Poof. In an instant, this summer vanished, like the sun slipping behind the mountain when we weren’t watching.


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