I live in the Chicago suburbs. Doesn’t matter which one. As of this Labor Day weekend, we Chicagoans all have one thing in common. “Summer’s Over.” I can’t believe how short summer is in Chicago. And this year I caught a cold from one of the grandkids, so today, I’m inside, feeling sorry for myself. I’m scribbling this and listening to an Amazon Music playlist entitled “Long Weekend: Rock”. They figure with the holiday weekend we have an extra day to listen to tunes. It’s pretty good actually. If you have the Amazon Music app, here’s the link. Think “Sound of Silence” by Disturbed.
Ahead is fall, my favorite season. Then winter, the longest season. It’s also the one I dislike most. (I can’t say “hate the most” because we are discouraging our grandkids from using that word. But I hate winter.) We’re fortunate. Our house came with a swimming pool and we enjoy watching the kids swim all summer. (All three weeks of it.) Well, we see some of the grandkids. The older ones have too many other things to do than go to Nana and Grandpa’s and swim. So, the youngest kids enjoy it. That gives us a great opportunity to be with them.
Anyway, once Labor Day comes my daughter and son-in-law sing a funeral dirge entitled “Summer’s Over.” Wikipedia calls a dirge “a somber song or lament expressing mourning or grief, such as would be appropriate for performance at a funeral.” Exactly. That’s how I feel when summer ends. It’s like someone died and we are all in mourning. We mourn because we know what’s ahead. 4-6 months of winter. 15 below, snow, and worse than any of that…darkness. I used to get up around 5:00 am for work. (Now I’m retired so I don’t have to get up at all if I don’t want to.) Whatever. It was dark at 5. It was dark at 6:30 when I got to the office. It was dark when I left the office at night. Scrape the windshield in the dark, shovel snow in the dark, and basically live in the dark. I read a book by William Manchester entitled “A World Lit Only By Fire.” That’s what winter is like in Chicago…cold and dark. Sucks. (If you like to read, get something by Manchester. Great writer. You can read it this winter…)
“Move”, you say. Nah, the kids and grandkids live here. This is home. Where would we go?