Sun setting on summer? Get a Blizzard

When I see the display of back-to-school items in the variety store, I grab two rulers and make the sign of the cross, as if warding off evil. We're used to the stores putting this stuff out early -- Target, as we know, actually exists 45 days in the future, which is why you go for a parka when it's snowing out and they have shorts and flip-flops. But for now the back-to-school stuff seems wrong. It's summer.

Right? Strong stern pure solid summer without a hint of its inevitable end. Sure, there's a day in August when the afternoon light feels wan, distracted, and summer seems tired of itself. No more tricks left, no more surprises. You know the beaches will close soon, and it gives you cold dread. The empty lifeguard chair: an abandoned throne at the end of a lost battle. That's where the State Fair comes in handy: a big brass band that wraps it all up with gusto and grease and sweat and stinky beasts, with ruddy industrious September at the end of the parade. Summer always ends with an exclamation point around here. But not yet, not yet.

So: What's left to do?

• Go to the Dells. It's like Vegas if they'd had a budget of $354.

• Stop at a kid's lemonade stand and pretend it's the most delicious thing you ever had, even though it tastes like water used to boil hot dogs with some lemon Pledge added and a cup of sugar per glass. Give them an extra quarter. Otherwise they will sour on capitalism.

• Attend another neighborhood festival. This shouldn't be hard; there seems to be one every other night in our part of town. Face painting for the kids, cold hot dogs on dry buns, hornets, games, et cetera. I wonder when face-painting became an obligatory part of these events; apparently someone around 1992 said "it's all well and good to have families come to the park and gambol about in a sign of civic cohesion, but what we really need is someone to paint the faces of children and make them resemble large African cats." No one ever offers face painting for the adults, which seems a missed opportunity. I'd love to sit in the chair and ask the artist to give me a Clooney. Draw in some hair while you're at it.

• Go to DQ. Take the kids. Nothing pleases them more. A trip to DQ could end with a mandatory wedgie, and kids would still be in the car before you found your keys. I still recall the bright searing pain of a Mr. Misty aneurism; it was as if the front of your head had opened up and let in some cruel power that would have given you wisdom and total understanding of the universe if you weren't concentrating on how much it hurt. This was nature's way of punishing you for getting a stupid slushy at Dairy Queen when you could have had a cone. Dipped. With sprinkles. Serves you right.

• Finally: Go to the store for back-to-school stuff. Somehow it's not so bad if you do it while summer still rules. School seems almost theoretical at that point, something the scientists say could happen, but the evidence is inconclusive. If you thought about it, you'd feel the breath of Time on your neck -- parents don't measure years with their own birthdays, but by the tick of school starting, and the tock of it ending. Back to school means you have them out of your hair, and that will be nice. Things will get done. It also means an end to lazy summer mornings without plans, without rules, without care or heed. The first day back, the house is as silent as the grave.

Remember, Target exists 45 days in the future. If you go to buy supplies and the shelves are empty, the store wrecked and gutted, and the staff is clustered in the back room with the lights off moaning like zombies, then it means some sort of plague and civilizational collapse is in the cards. Plan accordingly. If everything seems normal, relax. Plenty of summer left. But of all the weekends left in the summer, this one's the longest. Spend every cent of it.