This story is part of our September 2026 issue. To read the print version, click here.

September used to be a lot easier. Almost all of the public schools rebooted. You started unpacking your mothballed tweed blazers, and soup for dinner didn’t seem counterintuitive, even though it was still seasonably warm. 

The TV networks rolled out their new and returning shows, making us wonder how we ever made it through the long, hot summer not knowing the answer to the spring cliff-hanger, “Who Shot J.R.?”

If you were lucky enough to live in Northern California, the leaves resumed their collaboration with the Crayola company shortly before plummeting to their expected demise. (In the 18 years I lived in Southern California, you’d have to drive to the mountains to get a hint that there was a difference between summer and autumn, other than their spelling.)  

Film producers started carting out their quieter “prestige” movies in September, hoping to awaken Oscar nominators before the winter holiday onslaught of big-budget family movies. 

In September, we hadn’t yet switched back to Pacific Standard Time but already started driving home in semi-darkness. As a child in New York City, as soon as my mom switched on all the lights in our two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment because dusk was descending, I knew it wouldn’t be long before my firefighter father would come through the door, preceded by the sound of his whistling or singing a few bars of a love song in his rich bass voice, a greeting and tribute to my mom.

I’d run to greet him, yelling, “Daddy-Bob!” When he picked me up in his thick arms and nuzzled me, I could smell the cigarettes, cough drops and aftershave on his face and hair. My mom would have something cooking on the stove, and my stomach would growl in anticipation (and also, it must be added, afterwards. She wasn’t a great cook; but the aroma of her meals always made hope spring eternal).  

To be sure, melancholia has always played a supporting role in the ninth month of our calendar year. September can arrive with tears, inspired by the bittersweet joy of watching our kindergarteners march out the door for their first day of school or, years later, board a plane or train to head off to college. And if you let the psychologists mess with your mind, there are also neurological and biological phenomena to deal with, like circadian rhythm disruption, melatonin imbalance and the ebbing of sunlight-provoking, elation-elevating serotonin in our bodies. 

Summing up all of the above, September can be a mood-altering experience. But it’s also the time when Major League Baseball’s season approaches its final, defining act of the year as teams begin to vie for a national pennant and entry into the World Series. One of the hardest transitions I ever made was when I was seven-and-a-half years old, and our family moved to California. (Notably, it was the same year the Brooklyn Dodgers had become the Los Angeles ones.) Overnight, we went from being rabid Bronx-based Yankee fans to tepid L.A. Dodgers fans. It just wasn’t the same.  

These days, climate change and school revamping have changed some of the simple pleasures of September. For example, we now have five seasons in our state: winter, spring, summer, fall and fire. Some kids go back to school as early as August, and some college semesters don’t commence until October. Football, basketball and even baseball seasons somewhat overlap, and now we’re starting to love soccer, too, a welcome but year-round addition to fan mania. 

If you still go to an office that doesn’t have a kitchen room in the middle of it, the old reliables of the business cycle have also been displaced. In pre-pandemic days you could pretty much count on September through late November as industrious months, with things slowing down around Thanksgiving and never picking up steam before the first week of January. Then, from January through March, work got intense; then spring break and spring fever caused a lull before there was one last, great push into mid-June. Then all bets were off: Vacations kicked off and, with them, returning vacationers decelerated the office’s pace and flow as they described to their fellow employees where they’d been, what they’d seen and how much it cost.  

As a writer since 1970 — and one who continues to enjoy his work immensely — I’d always looked to September as my ambition re-igniter. It was the month in which I’d check out new publications to which I’d submit my story ideas, knowing that the editors had just returned from their summer holidays and were also ready to get back to work. But nowadays, in case you didn’t notice, there are fewer and fewer magazines and editors to reach out to. 

Yes, September used to be a lot easier. But then, I used to be a lot less cranky. I guess I’ve changed colors, too.

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