At Large

It’s late August. Seemingly without ample warning, the days are getting shorter. It’s still summer warm – and occasionally summer hot – but the underlying beat is changing. We can’t hear it, but we can feel it. Sitting on the porch, or back deck, or in the summer furniture still neatly arrayed on the lawn, we can hear the katydids reminding us that summer is preparing to take its exit. We can still see lightning bugs in the trees across the road. The Canada geese are just starting to fly south, stopping for a while in the fields before moving on.

There are still concerts with remarkable rhythmic synergy at Music Mountain and Tanglewood that will stretch into September before they quietly end and let the silence take over until next season. 

The farm stands, generously offering fresh corn and tomatoes, will soldier on until that morning when the stalks no longer offer up their summer fare, the tomatoes are all harvested, and the opportunity to indulge in summer crops morphs into presentations of bundles of dried corn stalks and pumpkins and baskets of succulent peaches have been replaced by crisp apples.

A rhythm to the season

There’s a rhythm to the seasons that defies numbers printed on calendar sheets hanging in the corner of the laundry room. For many, the annual rhythm is still defined by the school year. Although we are all reminded that New Year’s Day will start the next numeric cycle (remember to write the correct year on your checks), the first day of school still marks a real beginning to the year. New routines. New teachers. New classes. New clothes purchased on tax-free weekends. There’s suddenly a football season, soccer games on weekends, endless campaign ads on television, and awkward preparations for a “Sadie Hawkins Day Dance”.

The leaves still change

Time was when the Litchfield Hills, the Berkshires, and the Hudson Valley would experience the ebb and flow of seasons by suddenly finding busloads of “leaf peepers” fleeing the grey of the city to search for vibrant color, stopping overnight at the Red Lion Inn, or cruising up Route 22 in search of the reds and yellows that were presented, without charge, by hillsides punctuated by maples and oaks. The post-COVID migration that turned “summer places” into full-time residences has made a dent in that parade, but the leaves still change on their own timing, and enjoying the displays is still absolutely free of charge.

We have no desire to rush the change of seasons. Major retailers will handle that all on their own as back-to-school sales are replaced by Halloween costumes and large bags of individually wrapped candy. Acknowledging the change of rhythm in our lives as we bid farewell to another summer and begin the time-honored practice of storing the summer furniture, raking the leaves accumulating on the lawn, and cutting back the hydrangeas is, in its own way, a celebration of life in this part of the world.

Certainly, there will be ample time to deal with shoveling snow, hoping the iced, sagging power lines don’t snap and leave us in the dark and rummaging in the attic to find the box of lights and ornaments. Winter will come. Of that we can be quite sure. The rhythm of the seasons, however, is something to savor, not dread. We still have time for one last concert, one quick dash to the farm stand, one contemplative examination of the pumpkins offered before selecting the best. We have time to embrace the rhythm of New England’s seasons and move gently to that beat. •