There is a day in September that divides Summer from Fall. My internal calendar understands that this day is quite transient. It comes at its’ own pace. One day it appears and demands acknowledgement.
This September dawn is the day that marks when all things have been harvested. This is the day to cut down the stalks of corn, now dry and withered. It is the day to pull the zucchini plants, the tomato vines, and to make ready the world for the slumber that lies ahead.
The crispness in the air, the shortness of the days – daylight may still rule but grudgingly relinquishes its’ dominance to night. It is, after all, inevitable. Even the sunlight prepares for the slumber that lies ahead.
This day marks the end of daylights’ mastery over our lives. Gone are the endless summer days – the days when you can hear the crops grow or watch the tomatoes ripen. What had become of the days of planting, the hours of mowing, or the row upon row of hay?
Were the endless days of adventure and the certainty of baseball ever really there? Perhaps it was an illusion. On this September dawn, it is hard to imagine those days had happened.
There is a fleeting sadness on this day. For kids, school now rules your waking moments with the reality of drudgery. Certainly exciting at first, to see your friends and compare adventures. It is only later that we mourn the loss of the freedom of life bestowed upon us during summer. Such is the power of this September dawn.
This is the day when mitts give way to footballs. Football creeps in to our lives with college teams protecting their honor and professionals promoting their sponsors. Saturdays are for the alma mater and Sundays emphatically state this Buds’ for you. Scandalously funny.
The reign of baseball comes to a close. On this September morning, the mitt is replaced by the football only after performing the proper rituals. Oiling your glove and placing a baseball squarely in the pocket is the age-old benediction of summers favorite sport. A reminder, perhaps, of the promise of next spring and the resurrection of glory days to come. Sort of a Rawlins sarcophagus minus the scarab beetles.
This September dawn sends us on the pilgrimage of the last long bike ride or long hike. Some years, a final campout is warranted, wringing the last golden drop from the season before October’s frigid blast delivers the ultimate eulogy on summer. The last sojourn where water, not warmth, rules.
As many things in life, including the sun, head south, you begin to realize that it is you that remains stationary, not the season. You realize now that the seasons move around you, rather than you moving through the seasons.
You learn to say your hellos and goodbyes as needed, for all things return in their own time.