September Song

Counting my kindergarten and grad school years, over the course of my life there were twenty years when Labor Day weekend meant the end of summer. Mind you, for college and grad school, back-to-school was a little later in the month of September. But you get the point.

And despite Labor Day = back-to-school = end of summer being only 28% of my life, I still feel that way. 

It's September.

Summer doesn't officially end for another few weeks, but basically, it's over and done with. (According to my father, the end of summer begins on the Fifth of July, because after the Fourth of July "it was all downhill from there." He was, by he way, not a dour or pessimistic person in the least. On the very contrary...)

Not that I mind summer's winding down. Not really. Fall, despite the dimming of the days, is my favorite season: leaves changing color, apples, Halloween, October's bright blue weather, warmish days, coolish nights, sweater weather, kicking the heat on, the World Series (even if the Olde Towne Team won't be anywhere near it at the rate they're going). Too bad we don't get the smell of burning leaves anymore. Now that was the smell of autumn.

And when I was in school, I loved that Labor Day weekend meant a return to school, with that new pencil box, those new marble notebooks, maybe a new kid or two in class, that new teacher to figure out - which, of course, wasn't necessarily a positive. I loved bringing home my schoolbooks to be covered - sometimes using brown paper bags, sometimes with fancier manila-envelope-colored covers. This picture is one of the manila book covers. While the bread sponsorship is true to form - I believe that ours were all sponsored by Sunbeam Bread - this cover is from a later era. I know this because there's an anti-litter "Pitch In" icon on it, and no one in the 50's or early 60's spent anytime worrying about littering. 

Back then, people littered. Not us: we were only allowed to throw apple cores out the car windows, because the birds would get them. And that was only when we were on country roads, not city streets near homes. But people tossed cans and bottles, empty cigarette packets, candy wrappers, dirty napkins, all sorts of litter out. Because there was not all that much fast food back then, there were no styrofoam clam boxes or Big Gulp cups. But roadsides and sidewalks were full of litter. In fact, a pre-historic form of Punch Buggy was popular on the walk to and from school. If you saw a Lucky Strike cigarette packet on the sidewalk, you could step on it, and hit the nearest kid while calling "Lucky Strike."

Litter digression aside, and back to book covers. 

My most glorious book-covering year - sixth grade, I think - was when I spent my saved up 50 cents not on a Nancy Drew book, but on a set of four spiffy, glossy "college" book covers: Holy Cross Crusaders, Villanova Wildcats, Penn State Nittany Lions, and University of Kentucky Wildcats. Yay, teams! 

Anyway, although I welcome fall, there is something so incredibly melancholy about observing the last weekend of summer-summer. 

I will be observing my weekend with my first in-person game at Fenway since the final game of the season in the beyond-dismal season that was 2019. This season isn't looking too great, either. The Sox were doing okay until halfway through, and then the wheels started coming off the rickety bus I always feared that this edition was. Layer on that the Red Sox are among the least vaccinated teams in the Major League, and I am fully prepared to lustily boo at tonight's game. I will not lustily boo the scrubs who've been brought up from Worcester and other minor league outposts to fill in for the players currently on the injury list because they failed a covid test. But I will boo the regulars if their performance is lackluster and half-assed. These tickets cost plenty, and if they're not going to field a competitive team, I reserve the right to boo. (I deserve the right to boo.)

On Saturday, I'll be having lunch at Eataly with my cousin MB and her SO, Dan. Arugula salad and cacio e pepe. Can't wait, even though, inspired by our last lunch there, I make a pretty mean cacio e pepe myself. (My secret is buying pricey pasta and parm hunks in the North End.)

Saturday will be a big eating day, as my sister Kath is hosting a family cookout at her place. Looking forward to a nice evening on their patio. Good company, good food, good wine, good weather (forecast, anyway). What's not to like?

Sunday and Monday it's supposed to rain, so I'll lay low. Reading and napping. Napping and reading. Cursing the fact that it's getting dark so early. Despite the rain (forecast, anyway), I'll get my walks in.

Back in the day, Sunday/Monday meant tuning in to make fun of Jerry Lewis, whose MDA Telethon ran those days. Talk about a performer that I loved to hate. (Lay-deee!) Sure, he done (some) good, but what a colossal - and colossally unfunny - ahole. He actually wasn't bad in serious films, when he played a prick. (I'd say he was acting, but he probably wasn't.) Anyway, I checked and it looks like the last Telethon was in 2014, which is also the year my husband died. So Jim didn't have to live without our little Labor Day tradition. (Tympani!) 

Did I mention that I'm feeling a bit melancholy?

Might as well end on a full-bore note of melancholia, with the closing lyrics to September Song.

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I'll spend with you
These precious days I'll spend with you

Not that I'm planning on checking out anytime soon. It's only a song. Still, it seems to fit the mood.