O P I N I O N
NOT THAT PROFOUND
By Nathan Graziano
There is a John Prine song titled “Summer’s End” that I listened to repeatedly this past Labor Day weekend. It’s a beautiful, haunting song, and also depressing as hell1. But when I’m looking to wallow in self-pity, depressing songs are my magic elixir.
And, man, I am adept at bumming myself out at the end of summer.
While summer’s astronomical end won’t officially occur until the autumnal equinox—somewhere around Sept. 22-23—its meteorological end occurs on Aug. 31 with the start of autumn. For those of us in the education profession, summer ends when the first student of the new school year steps into your classroom.
And, for me, its metaphorical end occurs the first time I have to set my alarm before 6 a.m.
You see, I still use an old-fashioned alarm clock radio, tuned to a classic rock station that blares each morning, stunning me from slumber. I certainly don’t hate my job teaching high school and college students, but I loathe waking up early.
Hence, John Prine playing on repeat last weekend.
During the summers, I work as a freelance writer, taking assignments that usually don’t require me to wake up before 10 a.m. Inherently, I’m nocturnal so I complete most of my work late at night when the house is quiet, then sleep late each morning, until I am fully rested, which is the only civil way to exist.
But the first day that the old clock radio blares Thin Lizzy or Led Zeppelin or Metallica (after they cut their hair), my comfortable life as a writer ends, along with the summer.
Each year, however, before returning to school, and before the clock radio first sounds off, I have another tradition that off-sets some of the bummers.
You see, I adore watching day baseball. If there is a heaven—although I probably won’t be welcomed if there is—it would be an eternity sitting in a celestial grandstand, watching a 1 p.m. matinee on an endless sunny day at the end of summer.
On Sunday, my friend Brian2 and I took in our final Fisher Cats matinee of the season at Delta Dental Stadium on an idyllic summer day built for baseball. We watched the game3 while consuming a few cold beverages and cracking wise-ass jokes—as we’re wont to do—from our box seats. For three glorious hours, I didn’t think once about the end of summer. But, alas, the final out was recorded, and the game ended as well.
Monday then became a day of mourning and repose for me. I sat on the couch, watching an “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” marathon, weeping softly beside An Existential Pug.
The next morning, at 5:45 a.m., the alarm went off, and I hit the snooze button like it owed me money. The next time the clock radio erupted, Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” happened to be playing, which I took as a sign to rise.
I hate Don Henley’s music, so as soon as I was out of bed, I shut off the clock radio and decided it was time for another round of John Prine.
- After watching the video, I realize “Summer” could also be the name of a woman. ↩︎
- Brian is a retired teacher, which makes me pity myself more because I have to go back and he doesn’t. ↩︎
- I also score the games. Yes. I’m that nerd. ↩︎
You can reach Nate Graziano at ngrazio5@yahoo.com