Down to the Last Few Drops of Summer

The Boston Globe

My friend Bob Cormier, author of "The Chocolate War," loved the words "summer afternoon." They evoked for him not just memories of summer but also the sounds of summer. The hum of lawn mowers, the clinking of bicycle chains, the ping of bats hitting balls, kids outside shouting, a carousel's calliope, the ice-cream man's bells. They evoked for him, too, the tastes of summer — fresh blueberries, fried dough, cotton candy, hot dogs, ice cream — and the smells of dry earth and heat and rain.

A porch swing. A hammock in the backyard. The sun overhead. Shade. Bees. A bike ride. A good book. Even a bad book. A summer afternoon is all these things.

I think about this today because it is the last week of summer. Not officially, of course, but come Labor Day, no matter what the calendar says, summer is past. And summer's passing is the end of summer afternoons.

It's the end of a lot of things. But it's a beginning, too. I know this. I know that in a few weeks I will make the shift. I will adjust and be dazzled by the colors of the trees, by the cool, fresh air, by the clarity of September mornings, by schedules that keep us on track, by to-do lists with things that are actually crossed off. By boots and sweaters and, I hate to admit this, by Neil Diamond singing "September Morn."

I am easily wooed.

But right now I am still in love with summer. And like anyone in love, I want to cling to what I have for as long as I can, burn the candle at both ends, walk barefoot, shout to the world why I love what I love, and not think about darker days to come.

The summer of 2016 has been such a huge distraction from dark days, bright from morning to night, every day, hot and sunny, every night, warm and starry. No grass to cut because it burned. No weeds to pull because the earth is too dry to give them up. Nothing to water because watering is banned. Nothing to grow because you can't water.

And so this summer has been all weddings and celebrations, impromptu dinners of pizza and take-out, days and nights spent with family and friends. No effort required.

And so it will continue. One more wedding. A few more dinners. As many nights as possible, before fall's chill, sitting on the deck taking it all in, trees that have grown so big they hide our neighbor's house; clouds that roll by as if on cue; the woodchuck family of five that has grown fat eating what the sun hasn't burned; the perfect blue sky; the sweetest breeze. And no mosquitoes.

This summer may have been bad for people who love green lawns and for all the landscapers who tend to these lawns. Bad also for farmers and the water supply. But it has been so good to mute the news every night and sit outside and watch the actual night unfurl.

The moon rises. The stars shine. The cicadas hum. And I see.

In a few weeks I won't. Friends won't stop by because it will be dark and chilly. The kids will be inside doing their homework. The windows will be closed, so I won't hear the birds or the planes or the cicadas. And I will turn on TV and see, not what's outside my door, but all that is bad in the world.

For now, though, the TV is off and there's gas in the grill and corn and tomatoes from Ward's farm in the fridge. And a new drink to try, basil vodka lemonade (thank you, David and Brian). A long weekend ahead.

And before that? One more week of soon-to-expire, no-rain-checks-given, not-to-be-missed, incomparable, unforgettable, always-too-fleeting, summer afternoons.