The Dwindling Days of Summer
Now that the fireworks are gratefully depleted, the leftover cobbler has been consumed or disposed of, and there are no more parades to attend, we find ourselves ambling into the final days of summer — languid, but still stiflingly warm. The weeks of August begin to take on a liminal quality, as the days blur into a mash of requirements and half-fulfilled obligations. We attempt to embrace the spirit of warm weather while simultaneously not drifting too far from our homes, if we can help it.
A change in the season can be sensed everywhere — in the echoes around the community pools and the half-filled public parks, in the fruit slowly turning tender on our countertops, and in the inevitable creep of Back-to-School supplies invading shelves in local stores. There’s a broad sort of restlessness in the air that lends itself to reflection, a gentle slowdown, and the hope that something beneficial — though not disruptive — is just around the corner.
Back-to-School Sales
This week, we noticed the first signs of summer’s slow fade as thin cardboard containers of lined-paper notebooks appeared on endcaps at nearly every grocery store in the city. The classic composition notebook — a staple for students but a flickering source of nostalgia for anyone over 30 without children — arrives conspicuously on sale, destined for clearance the moment it appears. This, to our estimation, is part of the plan.
Like the proverbial taste of forbidden fruit, the lined notebook is a Trojan horse: a quiet commercial invasion known as Back-to-School shopping. We witnessed the first volley just the other day while searching for something cold at the back of a local store. Passing the school supply section, we observed a parent already deep in rhetorical combat with their child. The notebook, that clandestine invader, had made it into the cart — which meant the second phase had begun. The child was escalating a passionate, well-structured argument for all the “necessary” companion items: new pens, a three-pack of glue sticks, and a glittery, molded plastic ruler.
The trap was clear. The modest, $0.89 investment in paper had become a psychological beachhead — a justification for a cascading spree of accessories, upgrades, and just-in-cases. Items destined to be either lost within a week or, if miraculously preserved, used once and then forgotten in a drawer.
Perhaps it’s an early introduction to the pace of modern adulthood, where every small investment begets three more, and those beget ten more, until we find ourselves financially committed to an entire lifestyle we didn’t mean to start. It seems cruel to teach the lesson so young — but no one ever said life’s most vital lessons come gently.
The Fever Dream of Local Social Media
We are — of course — high-minded aesthetes, immune to the petty squabbles of social media. But we are not immune to gossip or complaint, and so it comes as no surprise that we’ve kept abreast of recent trends in local online groups. Perhaps it’s the heat, or the slowly unraveling pace of modern life, but the tone of neighborhood discussion has taken a turn. Things have gotten... weird.
The usual topics remain — Has anyone seen my recycling bin? — but they are now peppered with increasingly unhinged detours, sightings, rants, and declarations. What begins as a search for road construction updates ends, somehow, in a lightly slanderous argument about whether a pigeon on your porch constitutes private property. A humble request for insect spray recommendations might suddenly be met with a treatise on pesticide ethics, followed by a detour into HOA politics and an inexplicable photo of a raccoon in a baby swing.
No matter how focused the question — painter referrals, carpool requests, contractor comparisons — a manifesto is never far behind. But we don’t mind.
There’s something deeply human in it. Local social media is our digital front porch: a modern lean-over-the-fence, a whispered “Hey, get a load of this.” It’s not exactly neighborly, and not exactly news, but lives somewhere in between — a strange, magical middle where we gather to watch a small-scale spectacle unfold. It makes the hot days pass faster. And more importantly, it reminds us that we’re all a little strange when left alone too long in the heat.
In Praise of the Gossipy Evening Walk
Not all of us scroll. Some of us, wary of big tech and algorithms, prefer our drama the old-fashioned way: through the post-dinner stroll. A loved one, a small dog, a sunset, and a vague sense of purpose — this is how we set out. But a few blocks in, our true motivations become clear. This is not about cardio. This is reconnaissance.
An evening walk through most South Jordan neighborhoods is part exercise, part anthropology. We observe who’s building a pergola, whose weeds have been professionally vanquished, and which house harbors the golf-carting children currently terrorizing the sidewalk. We track dinner smells, faulty sprinklers, and the ongoing mystery of which neighbor never turns on their porch light (and why).
There are faces we pass — some waved to, others nodded at, and a lucky few paused for conversation. Should the conversation yield gossip, all the better. We collect it like children collecting pinecones: not because we need it, but because we can. Stored away for later presentation, often to someone politely uninterested.
In this way, the evening walk becomes its own civic ritual — a gentle, domestic surveillance. We walk side by side, lawn by lawn, sharing small stories and noticing small changes, proving that community is not always built in meetings or online forums, but in the quiet steps between porches. Even when the stories are whispered, they still count.