Summer's End

I was driving home the other day with my radio on and the first notes of “Summer’s End” by John Prine came out of the speakers.  No matter how many times I hear that particular song, it slams my soul like a fist  I don’t know exactly why, but there’s something about the end of summer that, no matter how tired I am of hot weather, tugs at my heart.  Of course, the end of summer in my part of the world is a long process.  A cool day and night comes along in early September and you think, “fall!”  Then the next day, it's summer again.  Summer reminds me of an angry woman who has her say, exits and slams the door, then opens the door and sticks her head in to say, “And another thing!”  This happens several times throughout September and even into early October.  One day it’s sweatpants; the next day is shorts.  

But there is evidence that summer is winding down and fall is trying to take hold. The soybeans are brushed with yellow and the sumac is splashed with red.  Combines make wide swaths through fields of corn.  Late hayfields are drying in the sun.  The goldenrod waves yellow plumes and wild asters dot the roadside.  A scatter of leaves crunch under my feet when I walk across the yard.  Fat walnuts fall with a thud and the crows search the trees for pecans to steal. The farmers market holds colorful gourds, Indian corn, and pumpkins, brightly colored mums and dried stalks of corn.  The aroma of freshly picked apples tempts buyers with ideas for hot apple pie. 

The hummingbirds are gone – on their way to warmer places.  Nights are cooler now, and I need a jacket to sit on the porch to watch the harvest moon climb over the trees.  A few petunias put on a desperate last-minute showing.  It’s the mums' turn now to show off their colors.  I pick the last few peppers from the garden and collect more dried peas to save for next spring’s planting.    

Any day now, God will get out his crayon box and paint the trees red, yellow, and orange.  The first killing frost will be here before we are ready.  The grain bins will hum through the night and trucks full of corn and beans bounce along country roads.  It’s also weaning time for calves and colts, and the anxious cries of cows and bawling calves disrupt the peace of the evenings. 

When my husband Robert was alive and we spent all spring and summer camping and fishing on weekends, we were always hopeful for a long spell of late summer, when it was still warm enough at midday for a last swim in the icy waters of Sugar Creek.  But there would come a point at which even Robert, who was more tolerant of the cold water than I was, had to give it up and we would reluctantly pack away our camping gear and put away our swimsuits and shorts.  Robert would trade his fishing pole for his rifle, ready for deer season.  The hunters would appear in the local breakfast places, with their camouflage and bright orange caps, a sure sign of fall.

It’s time for football homecoming, bonfires, and class reunions.  A silent signal has gone out for Halloween decorations to appear.  Witches float above yards of ghosts, grinning jack-o-lanterns, dragons and mummies.  Halloween candy fills the aisles of the stores and the countdown is on for the Halloween parade in my hometown.  No matter how summer tries, she can only reopen that door so many times and she will eventually run out of things to say.  As John Prine says, “Summer’s end came faster than we wanted. Just come on home.”