Sunday, September 12, 2010

Summer's Gone

"Summer's gone, summer's gone.  We could see fall coming, you couldn't have missed it for a mile.
She turned eighteen, she turned eighteen.  Round her leaves are fallin', but you can't see them for her smile."
-Scott Kubala, "Summer's Gone"

The fall season in poetry has often been associated with melancholy. The possibilities of summer are gone, and the chill of winter is on the horizon. Skies turn grey, and people turn inward with their thoughts, and with their actions.  It was in fact, Irish poet William Butler Yeats' poem The Wild Swans at Coole where the poet observes symbolically the maturing season represents his own aging self. Like his world around, he too has reached his prime and now must look forward to the inevitability of old age and death.

It was with that feeling in mind and that time of season when I began writing "Summer's Gone".  It was a time of transition, not only of seasons, but in my personal life as well.  I recall feeling as grey as the skies, and as reflective as the pool of standing water in the garden in the yard.  I was in need of the warmth of the summer sun once again, at least as best as I could recall how it felt in better days as it made me feel as it heartened my soul.

I had been listening to the music of Brian Wilson, as I recall, getting the therapy I needed and my morale back on track.  I found long ago that music is great for helping out any kind of mood shift.  And there's nothing like the illustrious harmonies of Brian Wilson to bring back memories of summer and sunshine and warm those dark inner sanctums of the heart on a cool fall day.

Of course, I have also always loved a good double entendre and couldn't resist reflecting upon the subjects of my recent deep thought at that time, and making comparisons with the changing seasons (in this case, as I've always stated publicly during shows when playing this song live, this song was written for my daughters).

Now, when I play this song, it always reminds me of the cyclical nature of life, in that the good that we desire will always come back around.  Whether it is children who have left the nest (who seem to surely find their way back at some time or another) or the seasons, I can always bear the melancholy, wear a smile, and wait a little bit longer.

"Summer's gone, summer's gone.  And I can't help but feel some sadness,
that she'll be gone for quite a while.
But she'll come 'round...yeah, she'll come 'round.
Then we'll all be smilin'.  'Cause she'll be dressed up summer style."
-Scott Kubala, "Summer's Gone"