When The Open Road Is Closing In

The end of summer -- which, now that we're past August's midway point, is here -- always has a strange feel to it. The sun sets earlier, the nights are cooler, the movies get worse, the air doesn't know what to do with itself. Just last night, the temperature was a crisp 55 degrees or so, but today was humid, with the fiercest downpour yet this summer. In his most recent novel, "Sag Harbor," which was the perfect novel for this summer, Colson Whitehead captures these two weeks better than anyone else I've ever read:

"Ninevah Place, the dead end to the beach the rest of the year, was today the dead end of summer. We could go no further. The next day we'd close up our houses, pulling in the lawn furniture, winding hoses around forearms in messy lopos, leaning on faucets with all our might for the extra bit that meant piece of mind for nine months. School, work, autumn. As if autumn was not already here. Nights we zipped jackets to the neck, and days gooseflesh popped on our legs as we tried to squeeze one more use out of shorts we'd never wear again."

Thanks to the Magnetic Fields for the post's title.