Closed for the Season
I bought the last jar of Dijon mustard at our local market last Friday. Not the “last jar” in the another-shipment-of-mustard-will-be-arriving-tomorrow sense, but the actual last jar. At least until the market reopens next year, that is. Summer season is officially over at the small Jersey Shore town where my family vacations and for the first time in a lifetime of visits, I was there to witness the end. Which, not surprisingly, turned out to be a lot like any other ending—sometimes lovely, sometimes terrible, but mostly bittersweet.
—The Lovely
We’d heard a lot of hype about the great weather during “shoulder season” or “locals’ summer,” what year-round residents call the period from September to mid-October, and so far this year, it’s turned out to be true. The sun’s been warm but not too hot, the ocean a bath-like 75 degrees, the humidity consistently low. Perfect for brisk morning walks and long afternoons reading near the water, not to mention all those beautiful fall brides and their much-anticipated photo opportunities on the beach.
—The Terrible
At the same time, shoulder season brought the pang of seeing our favorite seasonal businesses shutting down. I’m exaggerating a bit here; it’s not truly “terrible” when your preferred ice cream place posts its “Closed for the Season” sign. We had plenty of ice cream this summer. But once you reach a certain age, those signs trigger a sense of foreboding. Retail turnover is constant at the Shore, with new establishments replacing old standbys every year. Add to that the economics of the region, which increasingly drive commercial property owners to sell their real estate because it’s worth more for residential development than as a going business, and you never know whether a store or restaurant is closing for the season or closing forever.
A town like ours—like so many Jersey Shore or other beach towns—is a family destination, with multiple generations returning year after year. While we all love the beach itself, we also love everything else that comes with it: the mini golf place with the huge dinosaur topping its roof and the tiny take-out spot serving the best crab cakes in the world and the fudge store mixing up a new batch every night in an oversized copper pot in the window. Those places, those experiences become an inextricable part of the complex tapestry of memories families weave together and label a tradition, so it’s a big loss when one of them disappears without warning. Yes, life is change, traditions evolve, blah, blah, blah. Sometimes it’s nice when things stay the same, when thirty-three years later you can still get smoothies at the same beloved restaurant where your now-husband took you the first summer you were dating, and you can buy them for your adult children as well.
—The Bittersweet
Putting aside the lonely jar of mustard on a nearly empty shelf and the “CLOSED” signs popping up in shop windows, for me the cooler breezes of early September evenings bring a melancholy feel. Not just because they signal the relentless passage of time, although that’s no doubt a big part of it. Just writing the words “thirty-three-years later” above was painful, and that number doesn’t include the many (many) years I visited the same town with my parents and siblings before going with my husband.
Much like the holidays, Summer (with a capital “S”) carries the baggage of too many expectations, of a media-hyped mythology of endless fun. (FUN!) The gap between reality and those impossible-to-meet expectations can sometimes trigger a post-vacation letdown. If you’re anything like me, another summer has ended with its full potential unfulfilled—books still to be read, excursions still to be taken, naps and crumb buns and soft serve still to be had. But there’s always next year. Memorial Day will arrive, the signs will be flipped to their “OPEN” sides, and we can all try again, returning to the places we love, digging out those beach reads, and revisiting—or inventing—all those family traditions we want to pass to generations to come.