When I was in elementary school we were routinely asked in early March to talk about “signs of spring.” We listed them on the blackboard; we were sent out to the playground to find them; we were assigned to assemble Signs of Spring collections at home.

But never, ever, were we asked to list signs of summer’s end. Who would do that to a child—it is too damn sad.

The signs of summer’s end these days—were they always like this?—come shockingly, reprehensibly, early. Newspaper ads in late July (one month into official summer by my reckoning) for end-of-summer sales, back-to-school specials. Bathing suits, which I am just beginning to use, are marked down, along with sandals and sunglasses. No!

Summer’s going too fast, people begin to say by July 15th. Then August descends, the downhill slope. For those who teach or attend school—and by association and proxy for most of the rest of us, parents of kids, friends of teachers, etc.—this is the beginning of the end. My niece started her senior year of high school on August 19th this year; another niece began college later that same week. My son and I have more time—he starts college in late September, the same time I go back to teaching—but still by Labor Day the summer felt done, the precious mentality that characterizes the season had vanished, the just drop by, the come what may, the anything may happen, optimism of summer.

Summer is a time of dreaming and floating, of concocting new ideas and imagining where they might sail. It is a time of existing at the juncture of sensual body—that soaks up the sun, loves to swim, savors berries—and the dreamy mind.

In Oregon, the end of summer is particularly poignant (read, painful) because our summers, divine as they are, are so short. When in May and June summer is surfacing in other regions (it might be hot and humid in New York or Houston), the weather in Oregon is still rainy and cool, still more akin to February than to July. The folk wisdom here is that summer never reliably begins until after the 4th of July. I have found this to be horribly apt and try to schedule visiting my east coast relatives in June, so the gloom does not affect me quite so much. When the rain begins again—as it did this year—on August 30th, still three weeks shy of the official end of summer, there is cause for outrage—or sadness, depending upon your bent. Usually I am a reasonably optimistic person, but I am distinctly glass-half-empty on this issue.

For me the passing of summer—much as I love the sensual gift of fall with its moist sharp air, its array of phenomenal produce—is unremittingly sad. As a writer and professor the summer allows me to inhabit my animal self, to sink from public view (no students, few industry “events”), to daydream and to cull those dreams for my work, to thumb my nose at the angst of the publishing industry. Once fall starts I’m on notice again, looking alert, responding to students, marching in step to what is required of me by academia, and by the “publishing public.” Dreams and daydreams are harder to come by, harder to capture and keep when they do visit. My performative self prevails.

That is all I have to say on this issue. There is no happy ending. I will adjust as I always do, but I am not happy about it. Today is September 11th—yes, a fateful day—and I will do what I can, resisting the culture, to savor, perhaps alone, the remaining days of summer.