The End of Summer

One hundred and five days. That's how long I've been silent on FimFiction: And that's just with blogs! I'm not going to calculate how many days since I've written and published a story, for I'd find that too depressing. So, let's talk about that.

Before I go on another of my rambles, I'd like to say hello to those who've elected to follow me. In the past, I would have dropped a note on your page or sent email, but if I understand the updated site rules, that is considered spam.

So, well: Hello and thanks. If you ever want to talk, about anything, even ponies, do not hesitate to send a PM or email. Sometimes I do a little proofreading/pre-reading/stuff for what that is worth. I don't claim to be an expert on anything, but I like to try and improve myself, which frequently shows how little I do know.

As for everyone else, a big thank you for sticking with me. To some extent, I've been active, but quiet, which is what this blog is about, in a roundabout way. So, back to our story, already in progress.

My summers seem to start with such optimism and enthusiasm. I promise myself that this year will be different from all the others, I'll waste no time, and for once, I'll meet all my goals. Things didn't start out too bad. I made quite a bit of writing progress in June: I will talk about that in detail in a subsequent blog. But that fellow who gave me that pep talk is an inveterate liar, and only a gullible fool would buy his optimism.

You see, something always happens by the end of June and progress stops. To blame the weather would be too easy. I'm tempted to blame the family vacation since too often it marks the end of progress and the beginning of those languid weeks that consume most of July and the entirety of August. Whatever the source, and whenever it begins, things just stop. I never seem to be able to account for the majority of my summer. Days and weeks disappear, and if time is indeed a currency, summer makes me a profligate spender.

And thus, I find myself at the next juncture, Labor Day, the dreaded end of summer.

Back in the pre-Cambrian 1970s, the week following Labor Day was either the first week or first real week, of school. A true demarcation, but still a holiday I enjoyed. Our holiday consisted of my family—my parents, myself, and my brother—joining my aunt and uncle at their house. There we'd set up the croquet hoops on my uncle's pristine lawn, smash around shuttlecocks from the 50s—ones with real feathers—and end the day by consuming the typical summer meal of burnt meat and excessive carbohydrates. By the late 80s, once married and with a house and child, it became my turn to host since we were located between my parent's and aunt and uncle's houses. My brother showed infrequently, first off at school, and then married and moved away. That arrangement stood for many years.

In the mid-90s, my aunt suddenly passed away on the Saturday before Labor Day. So cancel the gathering? Not with my obstinate and ever-steady uncle. He arrived, alone and on time. That was possibly one of the most somber and emotionally strange four or five hours of my life. Like my grandmother's death on Christmas Eve, this added an unsettling component to the holiday since, something unspoken, not a pall but a presence. But this shock did not stop our gathering, nor the end of summer.

BlueBook grew and kept us busy at those gatherings, but by the early aughts, all that was left of our guests were a pair of widowers, two old Navy men reminiscing about the Destroyers they served on in WW II. Without a doubt, they and their stories were the source of my son's fascination with military artifacts, ships in particular, and history of every kind. In not too many years, only my uncle remained, until he too left, moving away with relatives who care for him to this day. He's 96-1/2 and of relatively sound mind.

Even BlueBook is gone these days, off to university by the time the holiday arrives, off with friends. No longer is there a gathering on Labor Day. Alone, my wife and I just labor.

Many years and many changes, yet through them there has been a constant. Not a special dish or a family activity, but loud party crashers that put a conversation on hold. Don't try to catch them, for if you've heard them, it's too late.

The view from my driveway, and yes, I'm not very good at photography either

It is the Blue Angels' arrival on the Thursday before the holiday that is my true summer's end, my wake up. The sound of a jet rips through the neighborhood, and what started as another lackluster, unproductive day becomes an unmistakable declaration that summer has ended. They are back, like swallows or geese or even buzzards, heralding the change of seasons. No denying it now. It is time to shake off the ennui of the last month, time to get back to work. Time to do something of substance.

And so I shall, starting with this blog and two or three others I've been contemplating. This week I'm returning—in a more organized form that is, for I really never stopped—to my stories, but more on that later.

So, that's it. I'm getting back to work. Wow: I could have saved a lot of typing, couldn't I?

Before I go, and since it has been a really long time since I've said anything, here are some follow-ups to previous blogs:

Dear Miss K——
She and her father made it to Trotcon, while I did not. She cosplayed as Rarity, including dyeing her hair, for the first day. Both her mom and dad contributed to the costume. At opening ceremonies she won a raffle; I never found out what she won. Her dad said all the waiting and talking did take a toll on her since she's an active kid. They used one of their autograph vouchers with Ingrid Nilson and K had her picture taken with her. They also got Ingrid to leave a voice mail message to K's brothers in Maud's voice, telling them the missed out on the fun. On Sunday, she got to sit in the front row of John de Lancie's panel. In response to a question, De Lancie was about to go into a story with a punch line that contained a not-too-vulgar word. Realizing a kid was there, he stared at K, pointed, and said, "I'm sure you've heard this word before..." The attention left her speechless.

He's off you know, to a distant land
BlueBook's trip and return went smoothly. As for his health, his blood sugar actually ran low, which meant way too many trips into konbinis for snacks. That consumed an inordinate portion of his souvenir funds. No Godzilla merchandise was to be had, but he came back with an unusual assortment of things for himself and others, as well as coins for the kids up the street. I got an Ultraman figure, a favorite character from some of my first anime watching in the late 60s (B&W on UHF!). For all the stress we went through to get the documentation for his medical supplies, customs waved him through without a question. How about that.

That is it for the moment. Like Arnold, I'll be back, but in the meantime, good wishes to you all and thanks for reading.

— OGM