Last Days of Summer

Where, oh where has the summer gone? I know, I say it every year, but the summer of 2013 has flown by. It's dark before 8:30 p.m., school has finished its second week, and Christmas decorations are sneaking into my favorite stores, knocking the school supplies right off the shelves. And now the Kroc Center spraypark is closing down for the season, and the lovely Madelyn Simone and I have only been there three times this summer - I'm definitely bummed out by that.

Even though there are still twenty-one days until the official end of summer (as the Autumnal Equinox is September 22), for all intents and purposes, summer is done, kaput, over. We know that because the Ashland Arrows have already completed game one in their gridiron season. The scent of fall is in the air, and I'm not too happy about that.

I do like the idea of the changing seasons. I don't want to live in Florida where it wants to be summer every day, but I wouldn't mind tucking a few extra days into the end of July - a 37-day month has a nice ring to it. "Thirty-seven days hath July . . ."

I'm not alone in my lament as the days of summer wane. William Shakespeare said it quite nicely: "Summer's lease hath all too short a date.” Somehow, time seems to speed up in the summertime, especially when we're on vacation. We got to our beach house (well, it was really a house on a neighborhood street in a beach town) on a Saturday, and by Monday, I was ticking off the days on the calendar in my mind, willing them to slow down so I could savor the rhythms of the ocean waves and the sounds of family laughter.

Jim Croce recorded his hit, "Time in a Bottle," in 1972, and his words keep echoing in my head as I write. I remember them from my high school days, when they didn't quite make sense to me, for at that time I couldn't wait for the next bend in the road, for college, for adventure, for life to happen. Croce sang, "There never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them." Jim and his wife Ingrid were anticipating the birth of their son when he wrote those words of longing, and they turned out to be prescient words, as Jim died in a plane crash a week before his son's second birthday, just as he was about to reject the fleeting fame of concert tours to return home to his family. 

Like Croce, I too want to put time in a bottle. I want time to stand still. I can hardly remember the feel of the newborn Madelyn Simone in my arms, and the tug of my infant sons on my heart is only a wisp of memory. I want to freeze the gifts of today in time - the glitter of the fireflies at dusk, the fresh-from-the-garden tomatoes on the table, and yes, the warmth of the sun - and can't forget a granddaughter's sloppy kiss.

The danger in that desire, if you remember Bill Murray's plight in the 1993 film, Groundhog Day, is summed up in his words: "What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same . . ." Time doesn't stand still, and, based on Murray's experience, we can be glad that it doesn't.

But here's the truth of time, as Brian Andreas understands. “Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life.” Skipping stones into the water with the lovely Madelyn Simone. Hurriedly licking a dripping ice cream cone. Tracing the leisurely descent of the rust-colored leaves as they carpet our backyard.

I've resolved to accept reality - time marches on. Summer is ending, and autumn is peeking around the corner. I'm tucking the memories of summer days into the pockets of my heart, so I can await the days to come with a spirit of anticipation. Just think - football, the Ashland County Fair, Thanksgiving, snow . . .