Shoulder Season
My brother Steve and I know something about driving between the Midwest and the East Coast. We were raised in Massachusetts but my Dad’s from Milwaukee, Mom’s from Chicago. Plenty of childhood roadtrips. And since we’ve been in Minnesota, lots of miles logged. Steve says when you pass Ashtabula, OH on your way towards PA the whole vibe changes from Midwest to East Coast immediately. Even with the limited amount of actual region-specific shit you see from I-90, there’s something very East Coast about the minute you enter Pennsylvania. The road signs, the age of the houses, the names of things, the proportion of house size to street size. There are close to intangible differences between the East Coast and the Midwest and a lot of it can just be sensed, if you know what to be looking for.
Just yesterday, Saturday October 5, 2024 in Minnesota, I got to see it change from summer to fall in about an hour’s time. It’s member drive at my workplace, Jazz88, so I spent 1p-4p sitting in my dark basement answering phone calls for donations. I walked out, still summer. Silus and Kelly from across the street were playing with their kids, Vikings jerseys on but still a summer feeling temperature. The sky looked summer. There wasn’t much wind to speak of. I drove over to pick up my kids who had been hanging at a friend’s house while I answered the phones. Stand out on the porch. Take the remainder of the snacks I brought over and chat for a minute. Still summer. Some extra glow to the world, felt almost artificial to be honest, but summer glow. The next stop was JS Coffee for a coffee for me and hot chocolates for the girls. Outside of the coffee shop I knew the season was changing. I both felt hot and felt like it was a mistake the girls didn’t have jackets on. It was kind of electric. The glow was there. The wind was blowing. Transitory.
My wife taught me the term shoulder season. It’s old folks farmer’s almanac talk for the period of time when a season is changing over to another season. And wow, I got to experience a short ass shoulder season across maybe thirty forty minutes sitting outside of JS. A strange breeze, a strangely quiet crowd of people, that strange feeling when things are out of sync and you know no writer has ever tried to describe this scene. No novel set in one of those 79 degree early October Saturdays just before the running of the marathon. It’s an undocumented eerie. Nothing amiss. Just nothing the opposite of amiss. . .nothing on point, nothing to a tee.
The girls consume their hot chocolates whipped cream first. The drink was out of season when we ordered it. It was even maybe out of season when S. spilled the entirety of hers on the pavement outside and Katie the barista was nice enough to make her another one no charge. Sidebar: I don’t love the term barista. But as this shoulder turns and the wind announces itself, it gusts instead of blows, the hot chocolates are becoming reasonable. Becoming downright fitting. There are hats I can start to wear again. Soups I can start to make again. Records that will sound better like Ghostface Killah’s Supreme Clientele, Nick Drake’s Bryter Layter and Cannonball Adderley’s Somethin’ Else. I can text Peter Solomon and invite him to this year’s Thanksgiving without him saying “it’s still summer shitbird”. Fall has arrived in seconds flat. The green leaves numbering their days, the tabs on my car asking me to make sure they are renewed on time for the first time in years, the warm cup of coffee laughing that I might’ve considered getting it iced just minutes ago. I will lose track of my gym shorts. I will find track of my gloves. I will find $6, a lighter, the end of a filtered joint and an over folded flyer in my jacket. I will watch the next chapter of the Timberwolves reach the Western Conference finals and beyond. If you know what you’re looking for you couldn’t miss it for a minute, it’s the Midwest and it’s fall.
