Ready For The Fall

A middle-aged woman I didn’t know smiled as she entered the elevator with me one day last week.  “Are you ready for the fall?”

I cringed, steeling myself for an unwanted mini-sermon from a dogged do-gooder, a holy-roller.  “I…I guess so,” I stammered.  “I mean, I pray, I try to do good…”

A look of bewilderment creased the woman’s face, followed quickly by one of amused pity.  “No, no,” she corrected me patronizingly, “you misunderstand me.  I meant the autumn, not the apocalypse!”

“Ah…of course,” I sighed, embarrassed by my mistake.  “Sorry…”

As the elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor, the woman stepped out, still amused by my obtuseness.  “No need to apologize,” she said.  “At your age, I imagine it’s best to be ready for both!” The doors slid closed behind her before I could think of a suitably nasty retort.

Back in my apartment on the twentieth floor, I reflected on our conversation as I unpacked the groceries I’d been carrying.  It seemed to me an honest mistake to make, an understandable one, and the woman’s parting shot was likely good advice.  But why did she have to be so rude?

Later, relaxing with my wife over a cup of tea, I talked about what had happened, and about getting ready for the fall.  “Remember when we were kids, it seemed summers would never end?” I said.  “From the day school let out until the first fall-fair arrived, our days were blissful, carefree, limitless.  Eat breakfast and head outside to play; dash inside for lunch, then back outside; trudge home for supper, then out again ‘til the streetlights came on.”

“I remember,” my wife said.  “But things sure changed when we grew up, in spite of our best intentions.  We got married, started working, became parents.  Those summers suddenly became  a lot more finite.”

I nodded agreement.  The calendar tells us summer ends with the autumnal equinox in late September, but the end always came much sooner for us.  It was marked, not by an arbitrary calendar, but by the requirement to go back to school.  Both of us were teachers in those long-ago days, and felt we had to get back ahead of our students if we had any hope of being ready for their return after Labour Day.

For many folks, I guess—like the woman on the elevator—the coming of fall is a time of new beginnings, of anticipation.  They think in terms of flaming fall-colours, brisk autumn days, evenings spent curled up with a book in front of a cozy hearth.  They look forward to the change of seasons.

Not I, though!  I’ve always thought of it as a gloomy time—the conclusion of summer, and the close of so many pleasurable things that vanish with the coming of September.

For example, with the end of warm, sunny weather, there came an end to my carefree habits of dress.  No more swimsuits or running shorts; no more open sandals or ancient running shoes; no more tank-tops or faded team sweaters.  Instead, it meant a return to the straitjacketing drill of collars and ties, pressed slacks, knee-high socks, and polished dress shoes.

The end of summer put a stop to the treasured luxury of shaving every two or three days, depending upon what activities were planned.  And it called a halt to the wearing of old ball caps as an alternative to brushing my hair.

The inevitable onset of fall wrote fini to three or four leisurely cups of coffee with the morning paper, and an end to mid-morning breakfasts on the back porch.  It heralded, in their stead, the beginning of hurried showers and breakfasts-on-the-run.  It marked the re-entry into the exciting world of daily traffic reports, as I attempted to find the shortest, quickest route into and out of the city.

In short, summer’s end brought to a close the lazy, drifting vagaries of summer living I tried so vainly to hang on to.  Coming back to the real world always provided a jolt to my entire system.  It was like going from childhood to adulthood all over again!  Once was enough!

“You know, I never wanted to be the type of person who wishes his life away,” I commented to my wife, “always wishing for something to be different than it is.  But, in a sense, I guess I used to do just that.”

“Me, too,” my wife said wistfully.  “For me, the year was divided into two seasons, summer and not-summer. And not-summer was not good!”

“Remember we’d take the girls on one last camping trip up north?” I said.  “My cutoffs and hat would be in my bag, my shaving-kit left behind.  It was always one final fling in the glorious realm of summer.”

“I loved it,” my wife said, staring into the past.  “Hiking, swimming, paddling, exploring, picking berries, roasting marshmallows, singing our hearts out by the campfire, sleeping the sleep of the innocent in those old sleeping-bags—it was like being children all over again.”

“Even now,” I said, “when every day is like a Saturday, I still pretend summer will never end, that I’ll never have to grow up and give it up.  It still seems there’s always so much left to do.”

“At least we have Florida now,” my wife smiled.  “Year-round summer! Before the fall ever arrives, I’m already planning what I’ll pack.”

During the course of our happy reminiscing, I managed to forget my annoyance with the supercilious woman in the elevator.  But by chance, we happened to ride the elevator again yesterday, going down this time.  As she stepped aboard, I could tell she recognized me as the confused old fart from a week ago—but this time, it was I who spoke first.

“Before you ask, I’m ready for Ar’geddon!” I smiled.

“Our what?” she said, head cocked.

“Ar’geddon!” I repeated.  “I’m ready to go!”

The same pitying look as last time spread across her face, the same condescending smile.  “Sir, you mean Arma-geddon.  You’re mispronouncing the word.” She shook her head disdainfully, appalled by my lack of acuity. 

Waiting a beat to spring the trap I’d plotted, I said very quietly, “Whatever!  It’s not the end of the world!”

We rode the rest of the way in icy stillness, a long, silent fall from the eighteenth floor to the parking garage.

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}