Brooklyn Boro

The leavers of summer, the leavers of fall

October 18, 2024 William A. Gralnick
A clock. AP file photo by Charlie Riedel
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When the notice arrived calling for the October Viewpoint articles, a line jumped out at me. It referred with disbelief to how fast the end of the year was upon us. By the time you read this, you, your friends, and your neighbors will be thinking about who to invite, what to buy for Thanksgiving, and how to deal with the greedy rush of the Christmas season.

We will also see the first feathers of the snowbirds. Weren’t we just celebrating New Year’s and wishing we could do it with Guy Lombardo instead of what passes for New Year’s entertainment now? Aren’t we still feeling the chill of patriotism from watching the Fourth of July Fireworks exploding to the 1812 Overture? It’s almost unnerving how time flies. As Tweety says, My “doodness draycious!”

Remember when summer seemed endless? Those of us who were lucky got to go to summer camp for eight weeks or spend at least a few weeks up in the mountains. But by mid-summer, it seemed one had lived an entirely separate life during those eight weeks. Others played in the spray of backyard garden sprinklers or the powerful rush of water from open fire hydrants. Even with the momentary heart-pounding rush that came with the rush of the water, that too got old.  Summer seemed so long that getting ready for school was almost welcome. It began to feel like we had been out of school for so long that going back was like entering a foreign place even though it was only nine or ten weeks ago that the term had ended. Yet, it seemed the way out, escape, would never come. School lasted so long that by the end of the year, it seemed that you knew every nook and cranny of it. Would it ever release us from its clutches? Then came the dancing in the streets; school was out. Summer was here but it wasn’t very long before it seemed that without the daily routine of school, summer was the endless part of life. And it was hot.

We didn’t know about climate change in those days, but we did know about hot. In my house, we had one air-conditioner. Of course, it was in my parents’ bedroom. Every so often we were allowed “a breather” and could go into that sanctum sanctorum, its shades pulled down and feel the coolness envelope us. 

We lived in a three-story house and for cooling the rest of the house, we had an attic fan. It seemed back then to be the size of an airplane propeller. Right before dinner my dad would open up the windows and switch it on. It created vibrations that were felt on every floor in the house.  Along with the vibrations though came a breeze. That breeze made summer dinners tolerable to eat indoors and when it was time for bed, the breeze would nudge us in the back as my brother and I ascended the stairs to the second floor and our bedrooms. The bedroom doors and windows were open; the breeze blew playfully around the room and our beds. As I rolled over, the sheet sticking from sweat to my body, the breeze helped evaporate the dampness and create a sense of comfort. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t know I would have been more comfortable in that room across the hall from which came the sound of the air conditioner’s motor.

But not every meal was indoors. Was there anything that smelled better, or tasted better than a steak on the grill? My favorites were flank steak, fancily known as London Broil, or T-bone. I lusted for the bone. The charcoal briquets were piled in a pyramid and soaked with lighter fluid which had its own easily identifiable odor. The match was thrown in, with cries of “stand back, stand back.” The match created a whoosh of red and blue flame that settled back into the black coals that soon began to turn white. The meat sizzled and its dripping created sudden flare-ups all to the delight of the children. Who knew then that something that tasted so good could be so bad for you?  I’m not sure, even if we knew, it would have mattered.

To beat the heat there was always a trip to the beach. There was an irony to such trips. You had to bear the heat of the unairconditioned car to get there. Once there the sand was so hot you had to wear shoes to walk on it, and the sun was scorching. There was always traffic so one arrived dripping with sweat, clothes glued to your back as the car sat in endless traffic, inching along mile after mile. But we’d stay past sundown. The sight of the sun going down over the ocean, the feeling of the breezes kicking up, the sounds of the waves splashing against the hard, grey ocean sand—it was enough to make you forget the misery of getting there.

Something else we didn’t know was what the sun could do to you. Mothers would slather their children in the early edition of Coppertone but a day in the sun, coated with sun tan lotion, could still mean a night of misery from sunburn and blisters. Later, when we got older and mom wasn’t around, we became the baby oil and iodine generation.  In the winter we’d top off that attack on our skin by holding aluminum reflectors up to our faces. How many dermatologists’ children have gone to college from our hormonally driven need to look cool by having a winter tan?

Ah yes, those were the days, the days that turn the head’s memory drum as summer turns into what passes for Fall in South Florida.

By the way, for those of you following my WHYI -Philadelphia Fresh Air adventure—I’ve yet to hear from Terry Gross. But hope springs eternal. She’s been on vacation and has just returned. Don’t hold your breath but do keep your fingers crossed for me.





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