Well, that didn't take too long, did it?
I mean, really, back in the winter, when the roads were icy and the snow days were piling up like drifts, we all had to know this summer was going to last about as long as a Popsicle on the sidewalk in July.
Sort of reminds me of my Michigan childhood. There, when asked what there was to do in the summer, the standard answer was, "If it falls on the weekend, we try to have a picnic."
It is August, and, for all intents and purposes, the summer is over. If you have a child in most school activities, he or she is already having to drag off to the court or band room or field house. Back-to-school sales are already in full swing, and for those heading off to college, eyes are already focusing on the door.
Once upon a time, this was, if not my favorite time of year, at least pretty close.
OK, that sounds a little strange. But when you live on a military base, your friends live in town and you are too young to drive, the end of summer means a return to civilization. Or at least as much civilization as the Michigan public school system had to offer.
Later on, the end of summer meant I could finally quit whatever menial, low-man-on-the-totem-pole job I has been able to scrounge up and head back to college, where I suddenly went from being the idiot with the shovel at the bottom of the hole to one of the best and the brightest, the future of the country, in a very general, definitely not specific way.
When you're a kid, the year starts in the fall. That's when you head back to school, hoping someone notices you got your braces off or that this will be the year algebra finally makes sense or you'll get a date for Homecoming (the answers, in order, are, a few, not really, and yes, but she'll get sick in your car. A long story for another time. But there is a reason I don't like the smell of peaches.).
When you're an adult, however, fall represents exactly what it is; the beginning of the end. Oh, you can church it up with football (OK, that does take the sting out a little. Actually, a lot.), but as soon as school starts, you realize that another year is almost over and the leaves aren't the only things falling around here.
Pretty soon, what started off at three to four months in the middle of the year will stop being associated with numbers and start being represented by a title. Like, "The Year My Youngest Son Almost Learned To Drive and Broke His Wrist. OK, Not Connected Events." Or, for my youngest daughter, "The Summer of the Macaroon," which is a small, cake-like pastry that can only be made with hours of work, sinks full of dishes, about $50 worth of ingredients and is about the size and taste of a sugar cube and which she has become obsessed with making.
Why this couldn't be "The Summer of the Cheesecake Your Dad Really Likes, You Know, The One With the Graham Cracker Crust," I don't know. Or how about "The Summer You Figured Out That For the Change In Your Car's Cup Holder You Could Buy A Whole Package of Double-Stuff Oreos,Which, While Not French, Are Really Pretty Good, Too?" That would have been nice. And people can share those.
They can also leave, or at least get closer to leaving.
The Lovely Mrs. Smith and I have done this before, and we'll do it again. We've got one more at home, but in what for him is the numbingly long stretch of three years and for us the twinkling of an eye, he'll be gone, too.
This fall, we move our youngest daughter into her first apartment. The first time there's not a parent or a proctor or an RA or someone telling her that's too loud or it really is time to get in off the front stoop and get to bed. And thanks to the reality of leases and obvious charms of a college town in the summer, this will probably have been the last time she'll actually live under our roof for any extended period.
And that was the point, right? Nurture them, take care of them, feed them and prepare them for the day they go out on their own. For some of our friends, this will be the first, and they'll wonder, like we did, if we did it right. And where the time went.
Yeah, that didn't take too long, did it? Not too long at all.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST WHO LIVES IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 08/07/2014