WGBH News Senior Reporter Phillip Martin muses on the end of summer — which comes too soon, as he sees it.
Many are now counting down the days. With a mixture of regret for those who like to sweat and exhilaration for those who prefer falling leaves:
But summer provides a kind of freedom that we can only dream about in Fall and Winter. Sleeveless, coatless walks along the Charles, outdoor dining on the Boston harbor, picnics in Franklin Park, fishing on the Spigot River in Lawrence, pickup basketball games everywhere.
And it’s the sounds of summer that many of us hold onto like an old blanket long after the dog days have passed:
The chorus of Crickets in the blackness of night.
Kids at play.
The pounding of the surf, from Cranes Beach to Revere to Hull to Truro to Narragansett.
The familiar theme from an ice cream truck, like a pied piper luring kids and their parents to the truck counter’s edge.
And then there are the smells of summer: The sidewalk after a torrential rain, the scent of Memphis ribs in Boston and Italian sausages on a hot grill, fragrant Lilacs and roses in the garden.
The end of Summer in New England means the end of the festival season.
Religious celebrations in the North End in August, the Caribbean Festival in Franklin Park, live music --Night after night-- in DePasquale Square on Federal Hill in Providence.
Summer is the season for salsa in the streets. The season that drives host Jose Masso and that annual rite known as the Puerto Rican Festival.
Jazz wafts through June, July and August nights with festival after festival—from Boston to Newport— with WGBH’s own Eric Jackson:
The Boys of Summer are now wrapping up what’s left of their season and the Celtics Bruins, Patriots and Revolution vie for our attention.
Summer in July is Bastille Day on Marlborough Street, when parochial Boston embraces its inner cosmopolitanism:
Music, especially the music of our past, whatever past that might be, sounds best in summer.
There will be fewer days now to peel back the roof on the convertible or moon roof to soak in the rays and feel that ocean swept breeze.
Fall is coming folks and Autumn, without question, is extraordinary; painting New England in crimson and canary yellow, and for some it is the only season that counts.
But when that North Wind from Canada cuts its way across the region in November we are reminded of what’s ahead.
Somewhere in the too often gloomy distance between Fall and Winter complaints about summer die down considerably, and the imagination takes over.
While shivering under blankets and bundled in layers, many of us will think of where we would rather be: Walking under starlit nights in Rio, on a sun-crusted terrace in Marblehead, high-noon strolls along the beach in Puerto Rico, July twilight on the Vineyard, anywhere in California.
And as Summer ends, we clear off the picnic table, cover the patio furniture, condition the garden, and think beyond the immediate months ahead toward next summer, when we can start it all over again.
