Whoever decides when seasons start and seasons end thought wrong, in making Sept. 23 the official start of fall. Fall ought to begin, on the caIendar, when it begins in reality - the day after Labor Day, when the kids go back to school, and the car poois honk softly in the gray morning and the trips to Ocean City end and the football season starts and the smell of burgers grilling in the yard no longer wafts over lazy nights.
It really doesn't matter what the calendar says. We knew it was fall the week before last when we heard the squirrels rustling in the tops of the tops of the trees and watched as a few unguarded nuts plunked on the sidewalk. We knew it was fall when the breeze blew hard through the maples and the sour gums and a dusting of leaves sailed in resignation to the grass. We knew it when we got that scratchy feeling in our throats last Sunday and, instead of taking a picnic to the reservoir, stayed indoors and read the paper and simmered a pot of potato soup on the stove.
Let the calendar-makers labor under the impression that it is still summer. The rest of us know a new season has begun.