Saying Goodbye to Summer

Yesterday was probably the last real day of summer here in Oslo. As much as I enjoy autumn, I prefer summer, with the hot sun and the warmth and the greenery around me. I prefer the lazy days and the slower pace of life--nothing one has to do and nowhere one really has to go--like our summer vacation this year. I say this because once we start working again after vacation the pace accelerates from zero to sixty in the space of a few seconds. At least that’s how it feels. I’ve been back to work for about a month now and I already feel like I need another vacation.

Autumn is always a reminder that time is passing--and a reminder of the inevitability of that passage. I see that in nature as well. The yellow jackets are confused, flying into and out of our kitchen, seeking warmth, seeking food, trying to live out the remainder of their short lives on this earth. Dazed and confused. Ditto for the flies and moths that find their way in to our living room--I find their still dried-up bodies at some point when I am vacuuming. The pigeons and the sparrows have taken up residence outside our kitchen window again before we leave for work in the morning, hoping for a handout of some bread crumbs. They already look like they’re shivering, at least the pigeons, the way they ruffle their feathers and hold their wings close to their bodies. The temperature this morning was about 48 degrees Fahrenheit. Goodbye summer. Yesterday the afternoon temperatures were up around 68 degrees Fahrenheit and we took an enjoyable, if short, boat trip on the fjord. When we came in to the dock, there was a lone white swan that swam up to our boat. We have seen it before and wondered why he/she is alone, since swans are usually together in pairs. But it was very hungry, and it ate at least five of the flatbreads we had in the boat before it swam away. I always wonder how such birds survive the winter. The wild geese are gone already. The mallard ducks stay put and tough it out during the winter months. The pigeons do that as well. But I’m sure a lot of them don’t survive. The change of seasons always reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem--“Spring and Fall: To a Young Child”. It is a beautiful melancholy poem about life and the inevitability of death, and one that has haunted me since I was a child and read it for the first time.

So the temperature plummeted overnight. I found my turtleneck sweater, leggings, and leather boots this morning. But I’m not mentally ready for the change of seasons. And I’m never really ready for winter. Several restaurants have already posted ads in the city newspapers about their Christmas party menus and how important it is to make sure you book early so you get a table. I’m still thinking about my trip to New York in August and how enjoyable that was. It always rounds out the summer for me and I need it each year. I need it to prepare me for the long winter ahead. Like the pigeons and the mallard ducks, I tough it out each year--the cold, the darkness, the grayness, the long long winter. I guess there is a purpose to each season, but if I had my druthers I’d rather be out on the boat, lazing in the sunshine, or walking up along the Akerselva river, enjoying the long warm days of summer.