Right now, it’s 66 degrees in Salem, Massachusetts.
69 in Buffalo, New York.
78 in Indianapolis, Indiana.
65 in Falls Church,
Virginia.
In all of these cities, the late days of summer are
gradually lessening their grip. The heat is still perhaps punishing, the air
stale, but people can breathe a sigh of relief—the end of summer is in sight.
And with their backpacks and their pencil boxes and vague feelings of
apprehension, children are returning to school.
Labor Day is just around the corner—and once that passes,
people across the country will be making the transition to fall, with the
attendant autumnal colors, cooler weather, references to Halloween, hot beverages, ghost stories, snuggly blankets,
and the like.
Here in the deserts of Southern California, it’s not fall,
not even close. In fact, the monsoonal humidity makes the 105 degree temps
almost—but only almost—worse than the
dry 115 degree temps. And yet, summer is passing—soon we’ll be in one of the
liminal seasons that I feel like are a hallmark of California. The air will be
hot, the skies will be sunny and cloudless, and without a calendar handy, without
the 115 degree summer temps or the flash-flooding winter storms, one would be
hard-pressed to tell what season it is.
It’s not fall, not by a long shot, not like I knew it in
Indiana, but it’s close enough for me to pretend. When the heat abates from 115
degrees, down to a cool 97 degrees at a quarter til 8 in the evening, that’s
enough for me to sit outside and watch the last pink rays reach from the
Western skies, and listen to the cicadas (an odd and familiar consolation, they
are—noisy little fuckers have been everywhere
I have lived) mourn the inevitable passing of the summer, and make promises
to myself. I’ll start wearing makeup
again. I’ll cook. I’ll move back into the craft room. I’ll organize the closet.
All things that it’s simply too hot to do now. I’ll read some ghost stories. I’ll put up the fall decorations.
It’s NOT fall. But it’s enough.
At least for now.
Hahaha. Cicadas are most definitely noisy little fuckers. They were absolutely DEAFENING a few weeks ago, but they've quieted down a bit since the weather has cooled here in Indiana.
ReplyDeleteAnyway, I want to thank you for leaving a comment on my blog. I know you stumbled across it because you said you were searching for Indiana blogs. (Granted, I've done the same; I've looked for ones from Iowa, mostly so I can connect with people still there and hear of their lifestyle.) I appreciate the words you left. I understand how heartbreaking it can be to not be a place that feels like "home."
I can't say that I permanently want to move back to Iowa, though. I'd like to say that the situation is "complicated," but, really, it isn't. Iowa was where I was from. It's where my roots are. It was home. Indiana, however, is where I became an adult. It's where I changed. It's where I started a life for myself. It's home now. I consider both Iowa AND Indiana home. In fact, I consider all of the Midwest "home." I miss college and I miss Purdue just as much as I sometimes miss my hometown. I'm not filled with regret; I'm just filled with aching nostalgia.
There's a quote in "Let's Pretend This Never Happened" that goes something like this: "Have you ever been homesick for a place that exists only in your mind?" That's what Iowa would be like for me. That's definitely what Purdue would be like. What I hold dear, and what I remember most, cannot be repeated. My hometown has changed, and although it is similar to what it was like during my childhood, it wouldn't quite be the same. And Purdue? The people I loved while I was there are no longer there, either. Campus would be a ghost without them.
Anyway, that quote was one of the most truthful and most poignant things I have ever read. Here's wishing you a good trip to Indiana--when you do come--and hoping that you're able to move back.