At Large

It is, as we are confident you’re aware, September. For those still in the swirl of the academic calendar, it’s a new year. Although some locales have opted to begin classes in late August, the end of summer and the beginning of school have long been associated with Labor Day. Decades after graduation, there is still a sense of cosmic shift when the calendar moves to September and vacations are over, offices come alive, and fleeting thoughts turn to autumn, soon to be upon us. Having children or grandchildren heading off to classes helps reinforce the sense of change, but for those without those pleasures, the feeling of a new beginning seems innate.

We’ve made reference, before, to a long connection with the area, having spent summers in the Litchfield Hills from age five. While neighbors and classmates were playing Little League and doing cannonballs in a distant midwestern suburban swimming pool, we were wandering on well-maintained Appalachian Trail pathways, swimming in one of the area’s clear lakes, and waiting for evening fireflies and the August sound of katydids. Long before we were residents, we were “summer people.”

Market day

The “market day” designation first entered our consciousness when, at an early age, we were the Thursday passenger in the weekly grocery shopping adventure. We lived on a road that rarely saw traffic beyond the mailman’s car and the occasional farm truck, except on Sunday afternoons when Music Mountain offered up its summer schedule of string quartet concerts. The schedule has greatly expanded since those days, but for decades Sunday afternoons were punctuated by concerts with the Gordon String Quartet and slowly moving cars with out-of-state license plates often asking for directions.

As a child, the prospect of a trip into Canaan, CT, to accompany my grandmother on her shopping excursion was a weekly treat. Every Thursday adventure was capped with an ice cream cone, the second most difficult decision being which of the three soda fountains in town to grace with our patronage. The first, of course, was which flavor of ice cream would be perched atop the sugar cone. The flavor I remember most clearly was “White House,” a combination of vanilla ice cream punctuated with Maraschino cherries.

Grocery shopping was concentrated in the A & P on Railroad Street near the once-flourishing Colonial Theater. It was there, at a tender age, that we first heard a knowledgeable bagger note in a stage whisper that we were not locals, but “summer people.” 

Clearly, we realized at that moment, that meant that we were somehow different … transients who fed the summer economy for a few weeks, then disappeared back to New Jersey or Boston or “the City” or beyond. To a childhood mind, that term meant we were somehow marked … somehow conspicuously inferior to those who avoided us with a knowing smile.  

Flash forward seven decades

Evolutionary history has modified the impact of the term, but summer people continue to find their way into the cooler temperatures and less-frenetic life patterns of the Berkshires, the Litchfield Hills, and the towns tucked above the Hudson Valley. Time was when they would arrive by rail, but daily rail service stopped service to stations in West Cornwall, Lime Rock, Canaan, Great Barrington, Stockbridge, and on toward Pittsfield in 1965 with weekend service ending in 1971. Summer vacations are now facilitated in Range Rovers, Teslas, and Grand Cherokees. Those fortunate enough to have second homes in the area will return, sporadically, through the autumn. For those who simply rent a cottage for a week or two during school vacation, the summer is over, and they have returned to regular routines.

The incidental impact of summer visitors remains, and September is the transitional time when that impact eases. Restaurants continue to be patronized, but the “no reservations until 9pm” disclaimer rarely appears when trying to book a table for four. It’s a great time to patronize Le Gamin in Sharon, Champêtre in Pine Plains, or Prairie Whale in Great Barrington. Performances at Sharon Playhouse, Berkshire Theatre Festival, and Shakespeare & Company are a draw, but tickets are not impossible to find for a play that gets a glowing review. Getting on the local golf courses to enjoy a late morning nine holes is easier. The summer people have left. 

A quiet spot

The area does not have the publicized cache of the Hamptons, Martha’s Vineyard, or Nantucket. You may spot a few celebrities at the Millerton Farmers Market or sitting on the porch of The Red Lion in Stockbridge, but summering in the hills is more of a low-key escape.

The impact of the presence of summer people can only be theorized. Certainly, restaurants enjoy the “summer surge.” Judging from the number of lawn care trucks stopping for an early morning cup of coffee at Dunkin’ or memories of crowded parking lots at local supermarkets or the seemingly endless parade of rented e-bikes patrolling the roads along the Housatonic River, credit cards have gotten a workout, and local purveyors have reaped the benefits.  

Perhaps something that was, decades ago, like the mark of Cain has become a moment of celebration. Come to think of it, June is only nine months away. And, the summer people will be back.