September Mourning

This morning as I plodded along with my malfunctioning C-Leg hopelessly locked in “safety mode,” a stranger blurted out: “Give it up, Man! Go to Jesus.” I wondered what exactly he was suggesting that I give up? This unplanned meeting of the minds resurrected a memory from a year ago. It’s when I spotted Him riding a bicycle, which I guess is more appropriate for this day, age, and place than a donkey. I haven’t seen Him since, but then He probably is pretty busy.

In my less ethereal travels today, I encountered a bus driver enjoying a cigarette break. A woman passed by and said to him: “Those things will kill you, you know that!” He politely smiled between puffs of his poisonous pleasure, but uttered nothing in response. I then witnessed an impatient automobile driver—pretty commonplace around here—who was all bent out of shape because he had to wait a couple of minutes for a school bus to pick up a little girl. Even with its protruding “stop” sign blinking away, the guy blew his horn over and over and—when I caught of glimpse of him—angrily foamed at the mouth. It was a very annoying spectacle, but somehow a representative snapshot of my contemporary summers.

Summers come and summers go. And they aren’t what they used to be. Of course, it’s that perspective thing again, which I’ve written about time and again. Forty years ago, I was playing stickball games in ninety-degree humid weather on steamy asphalt—doubleheaders sometimes. Some of us played in heat-absorbing jeans. There was no such thing as a stickball-specific wardrobe. And we never brought along any liquid pick-me-ups, like water, to our games. Granted, there was no such thing as the bottled stuff back then, but we could have at least carried a small cooler or cooler bag. Well, there’s no use crying over spilled Hi-C.

After our games, it was not unusual to arrive home lost-in-the-desert parched—craving something cold to drink. Iced tea was very popular at my house in those days, while my neighbor pined for, in his words, ordinary but nonetheless very special New York City “H2O.” After quenching our respective thirsts, the player boys typically returned to the great outdoors for some stoop sitting and—what has become a lost art—conversation. Stop...get out...look around.

The serious downside of those youthful summers was that they came to an end. If it were 1979 rather than 2019, I would be captive to the calendar by now. And as the days grew noticeably shorter, I’d take note of the sun’s shadows, which increasingly painted a more autumn portrait than a summer one. And while it might still be brutally hazy, hot, and humid, the 3H’s charms were decidedly less so in the last weeks of August. Really, there was nothing more depressing than going to school on a blistering hot morning that turned into a blazing hot afternoon. It was an unnatural pairing—like skiing in July.

I notice that a lot of schools start earlier nowadays. When I was a kid, going to school in August was sacrilege. I don’t exactly know the reasons for these accelerated schedules. They seem especially popular in colleges. Once upon a time, the new school year began after Labor Day and not a day sooner. September mornings became September mourning—the sorriest of feelings as I recall.

Well, the 1979 summer is in the books and so are dozens more. But at least now there is no more September mourning for me. I have given that up, Man. Stop...get out...look around.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)