Even though it's been over three decades since I last lived at home and headed off to school, I swear I can still hear my father singing at the top of his lungs the moment September arrives:
Hey look me over, lend me an ear
Fresh out of clover, mortgaged up
to here
Don't pass the plate folks, don't
pass the cup
I figure whenever you're down and
out, the only way is up
My dad was an early
morning man, thanks mostly to the military. He never needed an alarm clock. As
soon as the sky brightened, the first bird chirped, he was up to greet them.
I never needed an
alarm clock either. My father's booming, off-key voice was enough to wake the
dead. So was his banging of pots and pans, jangling of keys, and making of
coffee.
For years, he was my
wake-up call, and that call began with the start of school in September.
No matter how old any of us are, whether we
have kids, whether they're still in school or long gone, September is filled
with nostalgia.
Though still warm, it marks the official
end of summer. I can see it in the trees, some of whose leaves have turned more
yellow, some of whose branches are tinged in color.
There is a return to routine, a societal flow
as constant as the ever-cooling waves along the beach.
September is a sad farewell to summer and excited
hello to fall: We can all recall the start of school, the ringing of the bell,
the smell of the lunchroom and new books, recess, friends, old and new.
Much of September's
nostalgia still applies today, even as I near 50.
As August's days end, I find myself saying
goodbye to good friends I have spent time with over the summer months in our
resort town, as they head back to their city lives and urban routines. Labor
Day feels like an adult version of the last week of school.
Though I am sad to
say goodbye to my friends – just as I was in school – there is an excitement
about what lies ahead, too. September means a return to routine for me as well:
Days spent waking early and writing with the windows open, evenings spent
relishing the last warm days.
September's nostalgia
makes it one of my favorite months. It is a middle ground for me, not only on
my annual calendar but also on my calendar of life.
It is not quite summer, not quite fall,
but a beautiful transition.
I am smack-dab in the
middle of my own middle ground in life – not young, not old – and while I have
great sentimentality for my past, it is tempered by my excitement for the
future. Perhaps that is why September resonates so deeply in my soul: It still
feels so young, but you realize, you know
that it is aging, its days now more numbered rather than unending.
Sadly, my Septembers
have become even more nostalgic, as my father is now battling dementia. He is weak
but still doing well, but his memory – especially of my current life and of current
events – is sketchy at best, and my heart breaks for him when he cannot recall
things I've just told him.
But every September, I still ask him to
sing his wake-up song – like he used to so long ago – and, amazingly, he can typically
recall many of the lyrics.
And so will I, no matter how many
Septembers lie ahead.
