Pumpkin Intrusions, Indecisive Clothing, and Emptying Pools
August is the month of mixed signals. The weather insists it’s still July, the stores whisper that October has arrived, and the calendar shuffles us into September and the business end of the year. About town, we find ourselves in the season of overlap: hot pumpkin lattes creeping onto tables beside iced coffees, tank tops arguing with sweaters, and deflated pool toys sharing storage space with Halloween props. Everything shows up slightly too soon, and nothing quite feels like it belongs. We await September, which arrives like a substitute teacher determined to restore order after the party got out of hand.
Pumpkin Intrusions
It is no secret, perusing store shelves this week, that pumpkins have arrived before the leaves. A trip for groceries reveals not only the bounty of late summer and early fall—the apples and peaches we crave as our taste in pie turns autumnal—but also an invasion of ceramic gourds, decorative brooms that smell aggressively of cinnamon, and wreaths fit for a very premature Thanksgiving. Fall decor has, as usual, arrived ahead of schedule.
We may still be in the mood for popsicles and linen, but candy corn insists upon itself like an unwanted guest. The aisles have become uneasy neighbors: marshmallows and graham crackers lounging beside pumpkin pie filling, while endcaps offer knitted beanies alongside flip-flops. Sunscreen lingers, though surrounded now by sweaters, and the crowned queen of seasonal favorites, Pumpkin Spice, has appeared in snacks, cakes, pies, drink mixes, and likely your favorite deodorant, shampoo, or cough drops if you look hard enough. She may be the homecoming queen, but the pep rally hasn’t yet started in our hearts. She’s waving from the convertible, but the band hasn’t shown up.
The intrusion is less about seasons than impatience—the slow march of American capital, always eager to monetize the next “thing.” Autumn barges in through the side door and begins setting up decorations while summer is still onstage with a few lines left to deliver. It is difficult to savor August when September and October are already rehearsing their parts at full volume. We love fall, pumpkins, and the changing weather, but we wish they’d learn to knock—or at least wait their turn before barging in.
A Wardrobe Crisis
The intrusion of autumnal decor is not our only concern, as August has also made us the worst, most indecisive versions of ourselves in matters of dress. Near the city center, it’s common to see a woman in sandals and pressed linen trousers pass a man in full flannel and boots, while a teenager compromises with shorts and a sweater. Fashion has been replaced by the collective shrug of “it’s not as hot as yesterday” or “I thought it was supposed to rain this afternoon.”
We collectively resemble travelers in an airport terminal, each bound for a different climate but all stuck in line together. Some are dressed for Miami, others for Helsinki, and somehow we’ve all ended up at the same gate. Your neighbor, eternally loyal to jean shorts and T-shirts, is still proudly sunning his legs, while the man across the street looks dressed for Shackleton’s march to the pole. The only true neutral is the baseball cap—our all-season hero, the one item that guarantees we’re appropriately dressed no matter what chaos the rest of our outfit suggests.
No one is ready to declare allegiance. Summer still feels possible, as our recent stretch into the mid-90s has proven, but autumn feels inevitable. So we prepare for both, turning our closets into a thrift-store clearance rack, resigned to restlessness until the season finally calls itself. We all look a little ridiculous, but that’s fine—we all know it, and so does everyone else. By sheer numbers, we may have invented a new style.
The Emptying of Pools
We have begun to notice that the pools are going quiet. A week ago, every splash was an exclamation point, but now the sentences trail off. Lifeguard chairs stand empty, whistles pocketed, inflatable flamingos sagging on patios like clowns who overstayed the party. The water itself looks colder, less welcoming, as if it too has grown tired of us.
Around town, gates are locking earlier, hours are shortening, and neighbors admit they swam far less than planned. The carnival is nearly packed, and the conveniences are shrinking to match. Even the children sense it; the bravado of cannonballs has given way to half-hearted floats, each person lingering as long as possible, determined not to be the last one out. Our skin grows waterlogged and wrinkled, yet still we wait.
We linger at the fence, staring at the still blue surface, hoping for another splash that grows less likely by the day. Once a neighborhood hub, the pool now feels like an artifact, a jewel about to be covered, drained, or left to collect leaves until next year. Sometimes silence is louder than the busiest noise, and in that silence we hear what we already knew: summer ends when the volume turns down.