Somewhere in September
The weather has finally come to its senses. After weeks of heat waves, saran wrap tight humidity and the all encompassing triple digit heat index, its NICE OUT!

The months of the year appear to unravel differently at the shore than from just about every place else. They tumble out onto the sand like a child’s torn apart coloring book. Each picture precious in its own loveliness. A gray day in somber November seems to defy impending winter by whispering in your ear ‘The snow will never come’! Later, there are those few surreal hours on a hidden December afternoon on an empty boardwalk when an anemic sun tries to pretend that its magically become July. While in middle March even the most naïve among us knows the drill, when the thermometer tips the scales at 75, that it’s nothing but madness to remove a raincoat for a cabana wrap. Everyone has his or her favorites. May and June at the shore for a springtime retreat. July and August for all out fun. As for me, I love them all, but it’s a sun splashed summer’s day at the beach with the worn, low rider chair, sea gull stained umbrella and towel and half empty suntan lotion bottle buried along with your toes deep inside September. That’s what I’m talking about!

It’s easy for the monthly renters and the weekend trippers. Time is up for them by Labor Day as Wildwood’s heaving island bridges wave an invisible goodbye. School days resume, work begins and closed up homes in points north beg to be opened to Fall’s festivities. Planes are waiting on tarmacs belching fumes before takeoffs to Ireland, Eastern Europe and beyond. Their seats taken by your ‘that’s grand’, easily sun freckled faced waitress at the pizza shop, the buff water park lifeguard with the accent you just can’t place, and all the other cashiers and attendants from the innumerable t-shirt and surf shops and boardwalk rides peppering the coast. They all had a ticket that was probably never removed from a secret compartment in their suitcases since their arrival, but the return date and flight number were nevertheless stamped so importantly into their memory. For natives of the island, alas, the return date for just one more stolen September day of do-nothingness on the delicious curve of Jersey’s shoreline, before Autumn swoops in, just may never be. And I blame it all on the Ninth Month’s almost sinful duplicity.

The weather has finally come to its senses. After weeks of heat waves, saran wrap tight humidity and the all encompassing triple digit heat index, its NICE OUT! The ocean and the air temps are practically identical. The spirit comes alive with the finest air brought to you by the unbound sky, crystalline blue and shimmering white, practically begging everyone to come outdoors and play! As any local worth his or her salt water taffy knows, it’s really and truly, the finest time of the year. ‘Get mellow, it’s groovy!’ is September’s seductive enticement to those recently paroled from the dog days of August. The caravans of senior citizens that arrive en masse aboard the behemoth busses know the drill. Out of town couples, without school-aged children, on information overload all year, flock to the inns and bed and breakfasts’ waiting to savor September, along with the conventioneers. Even so, for many year-round residents it’s always on the backburner of thought, slowly simmering until it’s too late. Ironically, there’s too much to do after the ‘official summer season’ is over. ‘I’ll go this weekend, after I get the house cleaned.’ ‘After the kids are in school, I’ll go during the week.’ ‘….after we get the store closed.’ ‘After I hit that great sidewalk sale’…blah,blah,blah.

Somehow, no matter how hard we try, and no matter how good our intentions, that last day on the beach for the summer, somewhere in September, slips by and before you can say “Trick or Treat!” …well, you know the drill.

The author of “The Water Cage” is currently at work on “The Lion under the Boardwalk.”