August

Though I usually account July 4th as the summer’s end, today—August 1—actually portends the season’s imminent close. The first date marks the only Western holiday of summer, and its celebration seems for me to end the anticipation which defines a season. For many, Labor Day marks the end of summer, though for me and millions of students and teachers the first Monday in September marks not so much the end of summer as the beginning of another academic year. It seems not so much a holiday as a starting gun. Mixing my metaphors, I approach Labor Day more like a light switch turning on the year than a celebration marking anything whatsoever. Indeed, for much of my life, Labor Day was a dreaded event: its advent meant trips to the barbers, expeditions to the stationary stores for school supplies, and slow walking to the corners to await the school bus. It was on Labor Day down Fifth Avenue in New York on which marched the fired Air Traffic Controllers in the Labor Day Parade marking the end of Union power. There was little to celebrate at Labor Day except endings.
I turn sixty years old this month.