The Last Day of Summer

It begins like a typical summer Sunday.

I get up around eleven, and I lounge around in my sweatpants for an hour or two. I play around on the computer, and then I gather my dirty clothes into a pile so I can do laundry when I get home from my workout. I make a light lunch, do some more on the computer, and then I shower and take off to the gym.

After I finish my workout, I head for the book store. This is also part of my routine. On the way there my path takes me past a duplex that I used to rent, and I spontaneously decide to divert from my course and drive past it.

For some reason, I’m feeling very nostalgic today.

I park on the street and I soon find myself drifting back fifteen years, to a time in my life that I often revisit. It was a time when I was experiencing a lot of extremes; a crucial time where a slight deviation one way or another would significantly change the arc of my life in the years to follow.

I shared the duplex with two women, in a quiet residential neighborhood of St. Paul that has big old houses with well-maintained flower gardens. A mile or so in either direction and you will be downtown in one of the Twin Cities, but here it is a place of small-town grocery stores and quaint little gift shops.

I worked at a popular health club in downtown Minneapolis, and my regular acquaintances included night club owners, musicians, strippers, and policemen -- among others. I had an “in” just about any place I went back then.

It was also a time when my oldest and dearest friend died from cancer, and the first woman I’d fallen in love with since college ended up marrying another man and moving out of state.

After exhausting all the memories that I care to dredge up, I drive back to the highway and continue on to the bookstore. I find a parking spot right next to the door, and I go inside.

While browsing around, I find two books on the clearance shelf that catch my attention. One is a book of Zen poetry, and the other one I’m not familiar with but I decide to buy it on a whim.

I pay for the books and walk back out to my car. I start the car, planning on going home. That is what I normally do after my Sunday bookstore run. But today being the way that it is, I’m just not ready to go home. School will be starting tomorrow, and deep down I’m not ready for the summer to end.

I remember a warehouse job that I used to have at a place just up the road, and nostalgia once again compels me to re-visit my past. The building is owned by a different company now, but it still looks much the same as it did when I worked there. As I drive past, I suddenly remember how I sometimes used to drive over to a nearby lake to eat my lunch. I decide to check it out.

Even though it is early evening, there are still quite a few late summer beach goers trying to enjoy the last rays of the summer sun.

As I park my car I don’t plan on getting out, but it isn’t long before I feel the urge to do something unusual. Something to further prolong the summer. Something I haven’t done in a long time.

I decide to join them on the beach.

My workout shorts and t-shirt are close enough to beach wear that I won’t stand out, so I’m okay in that area. I pop the trunk of my car and grab the leopard-print beach blanket that I keep in there, and I decide to bring along one of my books to read as well. Normally Zen poetry would be an ideal pick for a lazy evening on the beach, but today I’m too unfocused for that. I grab the other book instead.

As I walk towards the sand, I remember the last time I went to the beach a few years ago. There were three twenty-something women sitting close to me, and at one point I overheard one of them tell her friends how cute she thought I was.

Since I plan on doing some reading, I don’t want to be in the middle of the action. I notice a spot on the far side of the beach where there aren’t many people. The sun is low enough in the sky that the shadows from some nearby trees are threatening that corner of the sand, so most of the people have chosen spots closer to the center of the beach. I walk over and lay out my blanket. I kick off my tennis shoes and socks, take off my shirt, and lie back on the blanket.

I tan my front for a while, and then I roll over onto my stomach. As I do, I notice some younger women on the edge of the crowd nearest me. Remembering my last beach experience, I watch them from behind my sunglasses to see if I merit a glance. In my mid-life desperation, it becomes a test for how well I have aged.

The test is returned with a big red "F" marked on the top.

It isn’t that I’m out to attract the attention of twenty-something women, although I’m certainly not against the proposition. But in spite of how ridiculous it is to make an assessment of how well I have aged on one chance encounter, today their complete indifference to me is more telling than words. It is a tangible reminder that no matter how young I feel or how well I take care of myself, I have crossed a threshold. I have passed an invisible barrier, and there is no return.

I have become an anonymous old dude at the beach.

Before depression at this thought completely sets in, my dark Irish humor kicks into gear. I remind myself of the ending to my previous encounter at the beach. After the one girl told her friends how cute she thought I was, one of the others (after looking me over) said back to her “do you know how old he is?” A wide grin splits my face.

Still on my stomach, I reach over and grab my book.

I read the cover. “The Garden of The Prophet”, by Kahlil Gibran. I’ve never heard of it before, and I’m not even sure why I bought it. I had skimmed across some interesting passages in the bookstore, but holding it in my hands on the beach I’m not sure what to expect. It may have simply been the unique illustrations that attracted me, for all I know.

I read a bit, but my mind isn’t able to hold a train of thought for very long. Nothing I read grabs my attention, and my eyes begin to wander.

I glance over and notice the shadows of the trees creeping closer. In my mind they become a sundial, counting down the end of summer. Counting down the end of my summer. When they reach my feet, it will be over.

I sit up and face the water. Kids are splashing and playing in the shallows, and water skiers are making lazy circles in the center of the lake. Teenagers flirt with each other while throwing a frisbee, and mothers catch up on conversation while keeping one eye on their toddlers.

After taking in the surroundings for a while, I pick up the book again and flip it open. When I do, my eyes immediately fall upon a paragraph that hits so close to home that it takes the breath from my lungs. It resonates so deeply with my mood that I cannot help but wonder what power put it in my hands this day. If the entire book consisted of this single paragraph, it would more than justify my purchase.

“And what are the seasons of the years save your own thoughts changing? Spring is an awakening in your breast, and summer but a recognition of your own fruitfulness. Is not autumn the ancient in you singing a lullaby to that which is still a child in your being? And what, I ask you, is winter save sleep big with the dreams of all the other seasons.”

A bedtime song for my youth...

I close my eyes, and an unsettling feeling of acceptance washes over me.

When I open them again, the shadows are almost at my feet. Deciding to cheat the clock with one final act of defiance, I reach over and grab my socks and tennis shoes. I quickly put them on, and then I put my shirt on as well. I stand up and gather my things together. Shaking the sand from my blanket, I fold it up and tuck it under my arm. People are still playing in the water, but there are steady streams of families heading back to their parked cars.

I toss the book through the open window of my car as I walk past, and then I put the blanket back in the trunk. I climb in the car and start the engine. As I pull out of the parking lot, I contemplate visiting another place I used to live when I was younger. But something has changed now. Something is different.

Instead, I just drive home.