Labor Day is a week from yesterday, although summer doesn’t officially end for another three weeks after that. Still, it feels as if she is packing her bags and readying to leave town soon.
Lifeguards will disappear at Silver Beach; so will pier jumpers and bikini-clad girls. School starts September 2, and school busses become forces to reckon with if one wants to get somewhere around seven-thirty in the morning. I don’t like these changes, but I succumb anyway.
The days grow shorter, and the last of my gladiolas has bloomed. The furnace guy comes in the morning to make sure our furnace is ready for heavy duty in the coming months. Two days later the window washers come.
It’s the changing of the seasonal guard; the “to every time there is a season” rhythm. I only wish we were more programmed to do it closer to the end of the current season instead in advance.
With that in mind, I could cancel my furnace guy and my window washers to prove my point. But I probably won’t.
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