Tag Archives: Summer

Summer Ends, Fall Begins, Back To School In The Heartland, Over 60 Years Ago.

Proudly presented from www.writerssecrets.com Article Series

Author’s Program Note

All of a sudden things are radically different. A week ago, even just a day or so, the implacable summer sun reigned supreme, turning even the most energetic and equitable into sweat soaked complainers, facing even the least demanding task as if it were a firing squad.

Then, on a morning like this one, you know, you sense, you feel that that sun, with all his dictating of every particular, has passed into long-gone history. You remember him without regret, though his leaving brings the incorrigible winter into plain sight. Thrifty housewives catch themselves while sweeping the porch, “My, my Christmas will be here before you know it. How time does fly.” And she shakes her broom with a vigor that no one in the whole town had just the day before.

She shakes again to be sure things will be just so, ship shape. She didn’t feel this way a single moment of the summer. But she feels that way now. She catches herself, “Oh Come All Yea Faithful” her favorite Christmas song; she must check the attic. That’s where she’ll find the seasonal necessities. Then she smiles. It really is good to look early… she can’t help herself. The summer is gone, that’s for sure. And another line of “her” hymn slides out. She’ll check the attic today… just to be sure. It will never do to be unprepared… and she never is. That summer which ordered all just hours ago is gone. Dancing reindeer must follow.

One sure way you can tell the season has changed is the sound. You look quizzical, “Sound”? Yes, summer is full of Apollo’s happy music, the unbridled laughter of the young who pined for the summer, that May a million months ago, and  long ago tired of it; though they must be coaxed to admit to this dark heresy.


Summer comes with whoops and shouts and slammed aluminium doors. Summer is boisterous and capable of rebuffing any amount of “Jeffrey, come in NOW!” But in summer no one means it, for everyone wants to linger in the last twilights of sun and nowhere to go. Fall is a very different thing. And so the sound is a very different thing, too.

Summer is pagan, sprawling, pocket full of secret treasures from tree limbs and swamps where the cattails are always just a few inches too far and ingenious methods are required to avoid the mud that laughs at your inadequacies. Fall is disciplined, organized, clean clothes and a new lunch box without a single scratch and extra supplies for trading.

Summer is full of sound and laughter. Fall is muted, quiet, a time of sacred spaces and promises; some of which will haunt you for a lifetime, too precious to disregard, too painful to remember, except alone, head bowed.

Summer slows, autumn speeds.

The summer sounds say “bide a while” and even if we cannot, we know we should. In autumn we are too focused on arranging the remainder of the year now swiftly ending. It is always going somewhere, and never takes us along. This is the definition of sadness, and it is the leitmotif of the season we cannot stop for even a moment of “Once upon a time.”

Autumn returns the people, our friends and neighbors, who slipped away one summer day wearing sun glasses and the battered heirloom that is a grampa’s straw hat with its unexpectly bright riband in a fanciful color called cerulean.

The children who shouted their boisterous adieux as they left the security of drive way for the great imperial highways which take them anywhere; these children are full to the brim with stories of acknowledgement and high adventure, including first love with a broken heart and blurred photos you must promise never to reveal, cross your heart…

Summer may accept no destination as acceptable. Autumn is nothing but destinations, all important, even the least of them. Summer dawdles and saunters. Autumn has a date, a time, a purpose. It is for those who want to move up, move fast, and never tarry.

In summer, we slow down to smell the flowers; in autumn we grab the few remaining flowers as we race by, never stopping to sniff; grabbing because we need to give our hostess a bouquet, thereby enhancing our reputation, even if we rip the blooms from her very own garden, unthinkable in autumn.

Back to School

I’ll become a septuagenarian my next birthday and yet I caught myself just yesterday telling a guest to go to bed at once, after all tomorrow was a “school day”, a day for improvement, dreams dreamed, defined, refined, improved, achieved and new ones launched to continue the process for life.

To so aspire I was taught soundly and well. For this my teachers of yore deserve an encomium they will not get unless from me, for when I was in the schoolyard God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world. And I have always ladled out ample pomp and circumstance to those treasured beings who made it so.

I waited for them impatiently through the days of high summer. Then one day in the dwindling days of summer, all these beings, all women, all graduates of Illinois teaching colleges came back, like so many macaws in flashes of color and insistent chatter. Now their serious endeavors could begin. I, for one, needed no encouragement.

Summer has no standards. Autumn reveals new standards with daunting regularity. My fellow students decry the new destinations, some so they will not be seen as “teacher’s pet”; some because they know these new standards push them down and under, another obstacle to their ever less certain advance. Summer, for these, was better. Then they had only to regale us with new formulations of mischief and frolic, traits in limited demand for the rest of their three score and ten, unmissed by everyone else.

The smells of summer are clean, fresh, the honest scents of the good earth, crucial, good for a thousand years. They are strong, uncompromising, too real for the fastidious whose well being rests on the smells they seek to avoid at any cost. These waft down corridors enveloped in manly whiffs of Old Spice and Right Guard or, for the ladies, perfume like Chanel, No. 5 my mother’s scent.

One day when alone at my grandmother’s, I tried her Coty and understood its power at once. A single drop was enough to envelope you in a crowd of violets, wanton and beautiful, my favorite flower. I never tried this experiment again. I could not trust myself. I have seen the results when it is used without wisdom or restraint. It is where seduction ends and cruelty begins and never leaves.


Without any effort whatsoever I can close my eyes and smell the workaday smell of mopped floors in the cafeteria where sticky linoleum did not preclude our dance class; boys awkward, girls already proficient at entrapment, perfecting skills they will use for a lifetime. If they married “well”, their parents could congratulate themselves — and the school.

A different smell permeated the floor of the new gymnasiusm, the pride of the parents who bought it and entirely believed that those who engaged in manly sports upon its lacquered surface would never do anything squalid or dishonorable, on the floor or off. We were shocked to the core when we found off differently.

I only remember one such game on that supremely polished floor. It was a basket ball encounter, and I was coerced to be there. The star in that pipsqueak league was Bobby Lucas, who at 13 or so already knew the full power of the word “suave”. Indeed the word and all its moves might have been invented for him.

As usual he dazzled with irresistible footwork, a junior Globe Trotter for sure. And then one of those thrusts calibrated by God himself brought the crowd to its feet, even me.

To celebrate, I threw my head back and hit Bobby’s dad squarely in the face. A trickle of blood ensued, enough to remind me these almost 60 years later of the astonished look I generated when I was young and careless, when everything worked and painful limps and uncertain organs were not my portion. I’d bump old man Lucas again and again if I could bring grace and agililty back, even for an hour. I’d even go to  basketball games and holler.

The trees in summer beguile and snooze under the humidity that slows all, then slows all again. Summer is happy to stay home. Fall can hardly wait for all the tickets it receives to gad about. Summer says “Come by whenever you like.” Fall makes it clear the event begins at 8 p.m. and don’t be late.


The last days of summer now demand our full attention, demand but don’t get. All eyes are on the rising sun, where every colored leaf arrests the eye. We cannot remember summer when God’s arbor wafts such allure to our attention. And so the children pile all this windswept moribundity with rakes bigger than they are and jump in, youth and beauty in every jump; their laughter infectious.

Dappled with sunshine, bedecked in only the choisest leaves, life’s acolytes walk to the shrine, from Woodward Avenue, where Mom waves and waves again. “How fast they grow up”, the mantra on her lips and every other mother’s.

From Woodward they move to Prairie, cross Belmont Road to Puffer School, which my grandfather helped to build, brickwork his specialty and where Principal Hefty had been my mother’s teacher and lived across the street from my grandparents. Many a day I ate the mulberries that fell on her sidewalk. Delicious though they were, I was the only one who partook of their richness. Now I’ve always wondered why.

“… And to the Republic for which it stands…”

At last we were all assembled, rooms of Baby Boomers, the pride of the nation, our hope for years to come. “I pledge allegiance to the Flag…” and amongst us some did so with a fervor impossible to disguise.

These were the children and grandchildren of Europe’s internecine destruction, grateful every day to thank God for the Great Republic, “liberty and justice for all.” They more than anyone knew it wasn’t so everywhere. And soon, to our chagrin and peril, it wasn’t true here either. “O, say can you see…?”

Program note

The music for today’s program is the theme song for “Ding Dong School”, which ran on NBC from 1952 to 1956. You will remember Miss Frances (Horwich), the host. She was very low key and talked exceedingly slowly, perfect for small ears and hands and irritating to anyone over 6.

Her approach made her a star. For at the height of her popularity, she had 3 million rapt viewers, one of whom was me. I can remember so very clearly carrying Miss Frances’s messages to my mother, and leaving the television set when she said she had a private message for mom.

This approach was media magic, and led on to Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood, and “Sesame Street”, all gold mines. Now here is a link that will take you back to where it all started. https://youtu.be/VK5xsXa9LMw

Tune in for a special reading by the author.


About the author

Harvard educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant has been a “schoolboy” his entire life, his life ruled by the rhythms of the classroom. Using the knowledge gained and abiding by the commitment that produces results, Dr. Lant has written over 1,000 published articles, and over 55 books of merit and achievment. If you aim for success for yourself or your family, he is the man to connect with. Start with his autobiography “A Connoisseur’s Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.”School,change of seasons,

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Amazon.com. Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

Excerpts from “Wish You Didn’t Have To Go. Summer 2016”

Proudly presented from www.writerssecrets.com Book Series

Tune in to a special reading by the author Dr. Jeffrey Lant


Read along with these excerpts from “Wish you didn’t have to go. Summer, 2016.”


If you’re lucky, when you read this book, it’s summer, and
you’re listening to the score from Billy Wyler’s 1953 film
“Roman Holiday”.

Our holidays may not have been as grand as Audrey
Hepburn’s, but the key points were the same.. to go far away,
to eat different foods, to accumulate a lifetime of picturesque
memories, to take goofy pictures of yourself and your
traveling companions, to wear clothes that would take abuse,
and most of all, to find love… perhaps even the love of your

Summer is not just a line on a calendar, it is a whole new way
of living. The goal is to jettison everything normal and prosaic.
You are a different person… a more adventurous person. A
person of boldness and audacity. You will talk to strangers
about intimate subjects, knowing you’ll never see them again.

You will shower outside under ice cold water, under a starry sky,
and not think it odd that you emerge smiling and singing some
honkey-tonk classic.

You will visit campgrounds that are a gaggle of people from
everywhere, seeming to know everything about the nation and
its problems.

You will meet the boy or girl who will excite your dreams for the
rest of your life, and will regret the fact you never said more
than hello.

You will, for the first time in recent memory, play with your
siblings, for, after all, most of the time you forget you even have

Fathers will emerge more competent, mothers, less burdened.
She’ll smile the smile that snagged your dad. Even the family
pets can come, though they are safer staying at home, where
rattlesnakes will not bite, and giant fleas enjoy them. Yes, this
is summer, but only a part of summer, for summer gets better
and better, whenever you think about it.

And so I looked in the looking glass with the most intense
scrutiny. I thought of everywhere I’d been in summer season,
and everything that happened to me… how two bears entered
our campground in Yellowstone National Park and caused a
hell of a fracas. They might have been dangerous, but they
seemed uninterested in our utterly conventional camping
equipment and experience.

I remember the summer in South Dakota at my great uncle’s
huge ranch. I say “huge” not out of hubris, but because it
took a huge ranch to have even a meager living. I remember
my cousin Bernie… the handsomest boy in South Dakota he
was, decked out in silver and turquoise, a “howdy ma’am”
always available.

He got me on a mule one unbearable July in Blunt, South
Dakota. Damned critter took one look at me and fixed his
purpose, for he was mean spirited and onery, and defrocking
Eastern boys was his particular joy.

And so, in the desert of South Dakota, I found myself bucked
into the one remaining water hole, and, to the general hilarity of all,
emerged muddy, irritated, and vengeful. How that beast must
have laughed inside.

Because once you get started with these memories you have
to keep going with these memories, I have to tell you that my
severely irritated father picked me up by the scruff of my neck
and said, “Jeffrey Ladd, you are going to get back on that
mule and ride, because if you don’t get back on that mule now,
you never will!” Which did not seem so bad to me at all.

I remember that summer when I was fourteen or so, and filled
brown paper bags full of maple seeds that fell off the tree like
so many helicopters. Kevin and I packed up thousands of these
babies, and had a grand purpose in mind… to throw them over
the side of the Grand Canyon and watch them fall hundreds of

It was a great idea. We certainly had enough seeds in the back
of the car. However, when we looked for a vantage point to pour
our treasures over the side, we discovered the Grand Canyon is
not a sheer drop, but a series of inclines that trapped our seeds
and sapped the drama.

Thus, like Thomas Alva Edison, we scratched our heads and
worked for an alternative, and as we worked, our supply
diminished, ’til there was but a handful left, and, with
abandonment, we tossed them as far as we could. ‘Til this day
I swear that down, down, deep down in that profound decline,
there is a maple tree which proudly proclaims to the winds,
“This is the magnificent maple that Kevin and Jeffrey planted.”
It’s right there now if you look closely.

And what about that sylvan glade in Yosemite Park? One of my
Carter cousins discovered it… it was dappled with sunshine, a
real life swimmin’ hole, which, in a moment, had its full
compliment of cousins.

Then they did the thing that scandalized my Puritan soul to the
core. For in an instance, they were out of their tight-fitting bathing
suits, and flaunting their adolescent beauty which God Himself
had bestowed. It was a scene of Currier and Ives innocence and
eroticism, perfect and unique, for this never happened to me

The list of summer adventures goes on and on… the summer
we panned for gold in Colorado… the summer some drunken
Indians invaded our camp in New Mexico looking for booze,
and found nothing stronger than chocolate milk. The most
horrifying aspect of affairs was not what might have happened,
but that there was blood on at least one of the knives. What was
its story, I never knew.

There were of course excursions closer to home, including
the day my father taught me to fish. It was in the Potawatomi
River in Illinois. There my father, with limited patience, showed
me how to put a worm on a hook. I empathized with that worm,
and thought the 25 cents we had just spent for a canful might
better have gone to some creamsicles, for they were at the
top of my summer eating list, and worms were not.

Our family rule was that if you caught a fish, you had to gut
the fish to be able to eat the fish. That problem, too, was easily
solved… make sure you catch nothing. You are absolved from
responsibility, but not from scorn.

My plan was foiled by a gigantic catfish, a particularly
grotesque thing, that determined to give up the ghost, ridicule
of me being thereby assured. I’m glad the damned thing died,
and want you to know I never did my share of the scraping, nor
of the eating.

I remember too the summer in the day camp, when, during
archery practice, I had an epiphany, namely, that I hated
archery practice in general, and in every particular. Never
being a man merely to complain, I took decisive action by
escaping, only to discover I had to walk through four towns
on a hot asphalt road to get away. It was worth it.

There were aspects of summer that were, of course, not as
attractive. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t memorable. There
was the summer my grandfather got the only seated mower in
the town. He loved gadgets, and anything to improve the look
of his property was encouraged.

Then there were the love affairs, blossoming as easily as
dandelions. It didn’t seem to matter who was loved, just that
there was love. Notes were written, then sent by unusual ways
to the beloved who would be waiting breathlessly for your
effusion, their own to follow, as quickly as nimble fingers could

These notes, the entire experience, was redolent of Edgar
Allen Poe, Charles Dickens, and the latest horror movie.
Threats were made… secrets breathed… relationships heated
up at the midnight hour, only to be cooled by morning. It was all
delicious, and I remember every adolescent stratagem, tactic,
trick, trap, and lie with enthusiasm.

I remember the summer I stayed with my grandparents in
Downers Grove. It was the summer after we moved to Los
Angeles, and I didn’t know anyone there, while I knew
everyone here. I conceived a way of beating the heat and
demonstrating my bold audacity. And so, I turned on the
sprinkler, and, when the clock struck twelve, doffed my
clothes and ran through the cool, clear water with abandon,
emerging breathless and excited at the end. Life was good,
and my life among the best.

That is why I wrote these two volumes, for this is a very special
offer of two books for the price of one. I wanted you to
remember, as I have remembered, the precise details of the
summers of your life. Don’t stint… summer was probably your
favorite time of the year, save for Christmas.

And therefore, if you close your eyes and stretch out, you’ll
be rewarded with one summer adventure after another. Make
sure you get your share.

Musical note

For the music to accompany these two volumes, I have selected
the lush theme from Billy Wyler’s 1953 film “Roman Holiday”.
The music is exhilarating, joyful, innocent, and just plain fun, which
is just the way all summers should be. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYAJT5OLx2Q

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Amazon.com. Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

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Jeffrey Lant Associates, Inc.

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