OT-- WHEN SUMMER BREATHES ITS LAST
Posted: Sun Sep 03, 2017 6:03 pm
For Mom, who loved summertime above all else and who’d shed a tear each and every Labor Day.
A beach girl till the end…
WHEN SUMMER BREATHES ITS LAST
By Steve Cambria
To most in landers, Labor Day is little more than the first Monday in September, a chance to kick back and enjoy another precious, three day weekend. But for the thousands of summer residents who inhabit Connecticut’s beach communities, its arrival elicits a far more somber reaction. “Blue Monday” as it’s sometimes called, is (pardon the pun) a line in the sand that truly marks the end of our most cherished season, when the plug is pulled, the switch is thrown and the sign flashes: It’s Ovah!
Think about it, no other holiday is so definitive, so absolute in its finality. Contrary to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, Labor Day is that dreaded day when summer breathes its last.
For the die-hard, salt life worshippers, tell- tale signs of Labor Day’s approach are numerous. The searing heat of June and July eases and for the first time in months, a tug on a blanket is needed to ward off the pre-dawn chill. The sunrise that once inflamed the eastern sky just after 4 a.m. languishes like a sleepy child until nearly 5:30, and the daylight that fended off dusk till half past 9 p.m. in June, now relinquishes the fight well ahead of eight bells.
The beachfront itself grows eerily quiet. The shrill cries of toddlers, delirious from fun in the sand and waves are noticeably absent. School age kids all but vanish, unwillingly hauled away for haircuts and shopping with Mom, fretting over the thought of asphalt blackened, leather -tough feet being squished into new shoes and sneakers, and sun tanned limbs shrink- wrapped in long pants and dress shirts.
Gone are the distant rumble of speed boats, and the high pitch whine of jet skis. The kayaks, paddle boards and sailboats that days ago, dotted the Sound now resemble a seal colony resting atop the sand. Even the water itself changes texture, the onset of a brisk Nor’ westerly churning the tranquil and inviting azure into a mean spirited, steel-grey broth laced with white caps. All that’s heard now is the rustle of the wind, the breaking of the waves, the rhythmic clatter of halyards striking aluminum masts and a lone cricket-- running short on time-- pleading for a mate he may never find. A pall blankets the seascape, leaving behind a palpable loneliness that’s hard to ignore.
A life- long beach boy, I still feel a pit in my stomach and a stone in my heart whenever this weekend arrives. Looking back, Labor Day never felt much like a real holiday for there was much to do and precious little time for relaxation. It was a frenetic day cloaked in melancholy, oftentimes spent saying goodbye to summer friends, so long to summer crushes, hauling in boats and moorings, storing away fishing rods, tackle boxes, crab nets and minnow traps, emptying drawers full of shorts and swim suits, cleaning out refrigerators and freezers and loading up the family station wagon with enough foodstuff to stock a homeless shelter.
In between chores, I’d catch a few glimpses of the Jerry Lewis Telethon, trying my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach that would arrive on cue, at the start of each school year. Despite repeated promises made with beach buds for a late September or Columbus Day Weekend gathering, alas, once the gear train of life back home reengaged-- like sand spilling through dust-dry fingers—plans unraveled. Sadly, it would be another nine months before we’d meet again.
With each passing year, my reluctance to bid farewell to summer only intensifies. Now, into the third quarter of my life, I’ve come to accept that the underlying dread of Labor Day isn’t spawned by the inevitability of the season’s end or from the anxiety over winter’s approach, but instead, by a much darker fear: the stark realization that that special someone might never again return to this blissful, seaside paradise.
Their sweet, tender soul snatched away one long, dark, lonely day after summer breathes its last.
A beach girl till the end…
WHEN SUMMER BREATHES ITS LAST
By Steve Cambria
To most in landers, Labor Day is little more than the first Monday in September, a chance to kick back and enjoy another precious, three day weekend. But for the thousands of summer residents who inhabit Connecticut’s beach communities, its arrival elicits a far more somber reaction. “Blue Monday” as it’s sometimes called, is (pardon the pun) a line in the sand that truly marks the end of our most cherished season, when the plug is pulled, the switch is thrown and the sign flashes: It’s Ovah!
Think about it, no other holiday is so definitive, so absolute in its finality. Contrary to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, Labor Day is that dreaded day when summer breathes its last.
For the die-hard, salt life worshippers, tell- tale signs of Labor Day’s approach are numerous. The searing heat of June and July eases and for the first time in months, a tug on a blanket is needed to ward off the pre-dawn chill. The sunrise that once inflamed the eastern sky just after 4 a.m. languishes like a sleepy child until nearly 5:30, and the daylight that fended off dusk till half past 9 p.m. in June, now relinquishes the fight well ahead of eight bells.
The beachfront itself grows eerily quiet. The shrill cries of toddlers, delirious from fun in the sand and waves are noticeably absent. School age kids all but vanish, unwillingly hauled away for haircuts and shopping with Mom, fretting over the thought of asphalt blackened, leather -tough feet being squished into new shoes and sneakers, and sun tanned limbs shrink- wrapped in long pants and dress shirts.
Gone are the distant rumble of speed boats, and the high pitch whine of jet skis. The kayaks, paddle boards and sailboats that days ago, dotted the Sound now resemble a seal colony resting atop the sand. Even the water itself changes texture, the onset of a brisk Nor’ westerly churning the tranquil and inviting azure into a mean spirited, steel-grey broth laced with white caps. All that’s heard now is the rustle of the wind, the breaking of the waves, the rhythmic clatter of halyards striking aluminum masts and a lone cricket-- running short on time-- pleading for a mate he may never find. A pall blankets the seascape, leaving behind a palpable loneliness that’s hard to ignore.
A life- long beach boy, I still feel a pit in my stomach and a stone in my heart whenever this weekend arrives. Looking back, Labor Day never felt much like a real holiday for there was much to do and precious little time for relaxation. It was a frenetic day cloaked in melancholy, oftentimes spent saying goodbye to summer friends, so long to summer crushes, hauling in boats and moorings, storing away fishing rods, tackle boxes, crab nets and minnow traps, emptying drawers full of shorts and swim suits, cleaning out refrigerators and freezers and loading up the family station wagon with enough foodstuff to stock a homeless shelter.
In between chores, I’d catch a few glimpses of the Jerry Lewis Telethon, trying my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach that would arrive on cue, at the start of each school year. Despite repeated promises made with beach buds for a late September or Columbus Day Weekend gathering, alas, once the gear train of life back home reengaged-- like sand spilling through dust-dry fingers—plans unraveled. Sadly, it would be another nine months before we’d meet again.
With each passing year, my reluctance to bid farewell to summer only intensifies. Now, into the third quarter of my life, I’ve come to accept that the underlying dread of Labor Day isn’t spawned by the inevitability of the season’s end or from the anxiety over winter’s approach, but instead, by a much darker fear: the stark realization that that special someone might never again return to this blissful, seaside paradise.
Their sweet, tender soul snatched away one long, dark, lonely day after summer breathes its last.
