During a scene in The Great Gatsby where several characters languish in the summer heat of New York City, one character chastises another for being â€œmorbidâ€ in her attitude and declares that â€œlife starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.â€
Here, the weather doesnâ€™t get â€œcrispâ€ in the fall the way it does in NYC. Nor is it the fall weather of my Chicago childhood; Iâ€™ve never woken to frost on windowpanes or trees stripped bare by overnight winds.
But it is fall, and there is a shift. The thick daytime heat breaks earlier now in the evenings, and the beach crowds have thinned with summer vacations long over and children now occupied with school. The beach, I think, is now a softer version of its summer self.
I wouldnâ€™t call it crisp, I guess.