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Hello, Darkness

Why is my window closed, I wonder? Oh yes, it was raining.

I push the window up and let the air in. It’s time for sleep, but this isn’t good sleeping weather. The air is thick with post-rain humidity. The heat is off and has been off for most of the current season. Should I run a fan? Yes, I think I should.

This scene is normal for September but not November. Yet earlier this month it was warm and very muggy. If you asked me what season it is, I’d have been tempted to say we were currently witnessing the last gasp of summer. It was getting dark at five, though, so that’s not right.

Fall used to feel like fall, but like how spring is often an extension of winter, fall has become an extension of summer. We seem to be in two weather modes here on the shoreline, humid or dry. Or, as I like to put it, sweat or sweater. So far, this fall has been more sweat than sweater. This isn’t new, either. Each year it seems I don’t need to have the heat on at all until it’s the winter solstice and I sometimes open my window at night to sleep. It’s tropical and sticky, not clear and crisp. The leaves change but the season doesn’t. If you don’t believe me, just ask my hair. Or simply look at it.

When I was a kid living in New England, on mid-September mornings ice edged my windowpanes and leaves were covered in fairy-dust frost. By October I’d be at the bus stop, bouncing from one foot to the other to keep warm, my breath forming misty white puffs.

I changed into play clothes after school and ran to my best friend’s house down the street. In November our play clothes were old corduroy pants and flannel jackets handed down from our older brothers. We hid in big leaf piles and whispered secrets we thought were important but weren’t. Everything smelled of wood smoke.

Now there are big leaf piles all over the place, big enough for me to hide in even as an adult-sized person. But you won’t catch me in sweaters or flannels. I’d rather wear shorts and a t-shirt.

Fall is usually when I like to make soups and chilis and beefy stews. I don’t want any of that right now, though. I’m longing for tomatoes and corn. The roadside stands don’t have those anymore. What happened? Didn’t they get the memo that September is extended this year? Don’t the plants understand that it’s so warm they should still be producing summer fruits and veges for us?

I don’t want a pumpkin-spice latte, I want an iced coffee. Or a margarita. Depends on the time of day. On weekends I have FOMO (fear of missing out), feeling like I should be at the beach or on a boat. I still go to the beach, but the snack shack is closed, and most people have taken their boats out of the water. So, I do a lot of walking. I don’t even need to wear a jacket.

Do I mind this endless summer? Not really. I’ll take Frankenbride hair right now because I know things will change. They always do eventually. Sun will give way to snow. Seagulls will still be on the beach, but they’ll be crouched against icy breezes, dreaming of lunchtime crowds and their discarded French fries.

It’s hot and it’s been black out for many hours. I put on my lightest pajamas, the ones I always wear around the Fourth of July. The down comforter at the end of the bed will stay folded up and I’ll wake up at least once in the night because I’m too warm to be comfortable.

The days are balmy and so are the nights, but the nights are long. They begin while it still should be afternoon. Hello, darkness. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know what season it is.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.