The Fall of Summer

 

      There's an unexplainable sadness that comes at the end of the summer.  The last hurrah, last beach day, dragging the chairs down the hot sand and settling on a less than perfect, three rows back from the ocean spot, unobstructed.  The families around me seem to be having fun, taking out their picnic lunches, or passing around chilled bottles of beer from their coolers.  I watch as my husband tries to get comfortable in a place he is most cranky. We shoo the kids off like sand flies, one runs to the ocean the other to the snack bar.  Joe turns to his iPhone, and I am in danger of being pulled out by the undertow of my own thoughts. Taking inventory.
     What did I do to make this summer better than the last?  I bought the Wonder Wheel beach cart at the start of the summer.  I packed lunches and snacks for the kids, this year I came to the beach prepared.  I was home almost everyday to watch the kids roll off the bus.  We did see the fireworks on the beach on Fourth of July weekend, two sets-both Bradley and Asbury Park.  I've been pretty good with exercise. I was supportive of Chinese Auctions and other charity events.

A song, symbolic of every summer.

     I didn't take my kids to Point Pleasant. We didn't go out to dinner with the kids once a week to catch up.  I didn't go to Atlantic City with grandma, or even out for lunch once.  I didn't take paddle board lessons, I am no better a swimmer, nor did I build the super deluxe sandcastle that my kids have been chirping about for the last few years. I've done no 5K's.  I missed countless opportunities to catch up with friends. I didn't spend enough happy, relaxed mommy-time with my loves.  I was under the same roof as my mother, but didn't spend much quality time with her.
     The chain on the judgmental anchor pulling me down is broken when my silly,  ocean soaked mermaid with golden locks plops all of her weight onto me.  She babbles in tongues, I blame the Slush Puppy and a Bratz sorbet Popsicle that she got at the snack bar.  The day feels forced, and as the clouds roll in and the wind picks up, I feel it's G-d's way of easing the transition of Summer to Fall.
     An hour later, we march with the rest of the zombies, back to the cabanas to eliminate any evidence of a fun filled summer.  Sand molds, a purple hoe, my dad's unused swim shorts covered in dust, and four beach chairs that Joe curses as he loads onto the caddy.  I feel as if each step that we all take away from the beach club is draining the joy of what is left of the last Sunday.  The highlight of my day was watching Joe limp back to me on the beach, when I asked him what happened, he replied, "I hurt my foot on a muscle." Hours later I will continue to laugh as if it was the funniest joke or movie scene I'd ever witnessed.
     When we get back to my mother's house,  I walk into the kitchen and look out the sliding door at the side of my parents house; the driveway is empty, my best friend (who's lived next door from the time I was 8) has already moved back.  It's an odd tradition, but I usually stand in her driveway as they're backing out, waving and crying as if she's sailing off to another continent.  Just a few hours later we will review my tearful good bye and do an over all comparison to that of the last two decades. I don't know why it is that I can still cry at that scene, or that I feel so glum at summers end, especially when I don't have school the next day.
     Now I carry the weight of my own fear of change, and that of my kids. I need to smile, to breathe in relaxed in/exhales. I remember this day, as a kid, a teenager, and a young adult.  I believe it's about change, that can't be stopped or predicted-just accepted.   As we drive back to Brooklyn, there is no traffic, it is a smooth drive with minimal arguing in the back seat.  I've soothed myself into understanding that all will work out and that everything will be just fine.  I am on Ocean Parkway and have not gone through one red light or been cursed at once.
     The closer we come to the house, the more pronounced the sniffles from the backseat become.  As I turn up the block and approach our semi-detached home on the avenue.  There it is, two car spaces deep and street cleaner wide-a huge green dumpster, smack in front of my house.   A nice welcome back from our attached neighbor.  I sit speechless, at this second I am faced with two choices.  I can jump into the back with the kids and start crying......or I can jump right in.