It was half-past August. When I was growing up, August 15 was the beginning of the end of summer. It marked the last time we went swimming. It was the time when the currents changed and the tides left thick rows of seaweed along the shore. It was the time when the bright slant of afternoon light shifted and the shadows came early.The large boats that dotted the cove slipped their anchorage to spend the winter in warmer waters or be put into storage. The toys of summer disappeared into sheds as hurricanes threatened.

Summer clothes suddenly seemed too bright, and the burnt orange and chocolate brown of fall beckoned. I retrieved my uniform jacket and pleated wool skirt from the back of the closet. I would need to order fresh long-sleeved white blouses and a ribbon tie. And where oh where were my shoes? Only one shoe store in New Haven had a contract with my school, and they needed time to order size 5 1/2 brown and white saddle shoes. How I hated that uniform. It transformed me from a teenage vamp to a frump in seconds. Even if I rolled up the waistband to make the skirt shorter than the regulation mid-calf, there was always some monitor with a ruler to give me demerits and unroll my skirt.

As much as I hated the uniform, I loved my school, so, with only a little regret, I let August go and turned to meet September.