Heisenberging the dew

Every year, it blows my mind just how precisely the atmosphere of the real world aligns with key moments on the calendar — the Tuesday after Labor Day, for instance.

Last Friday morning, despite being the first dawn of September, felt clearly like summer — warm, dry, a light breeze. Even yesterday evening had that distinct late-summer stillness and warmth going on.

Today, however, as I headed out the door to drive Maus to work, it hit me squarely in nose: fall. There was a heavy dew on the plants, the lawn, the car. The sun was coming in at a low angle, well below the brim of my cap and right in my eyes. The air was cool and moist and smelled like, exactly like, waiting for the bus on the first day of school. One whiff, and it all came back in a rush: the blue windbreaker, the red backback loaded with pristine Pee-Chees and unopened Crayolas, the Steve Austin lunchbox.

This can't be just a subconscious perception-switch between a pre- and post-Labor Day mindset. I'm not just looking at the world with equinoctical eyes. This atmospheric change is real, and sudden, and unnervingly punctual. I half-expect to see all the leaves plummet from the trees today in a single instantaneous avalanche, Monty Python-style.

At least we still have eight (eight!) weeks of Daylight Savings Time left — if you want to talk about abrupt atmospheric changes, the end of DST is like that moment in Silent Hill when the world suddenly turns from eerie-spooky-foggy to pure ugly hell.