Two mornings in a row like this: I step out onto the porch to take a look at the weather and find it’s a mere sixty-two degrees, cool and crisp. I’m glad I’m wearing long sleeves!
I’m not the only one bemused by October weather in late August. Our local meteorologist remarked on the same thing just last night; this is more like Indian summer, that last humid, languid, warm spell before fall turns to winter, than the last of the dog days.
Mention the words “Indian summer”, and the soundtrack in my head begins playing a plaintive tune from the big band era: Tommy Dorsey’s “Indian Summer”.
I first heard “Indian Summer” on an old 33 1/3 RPM album that Dad picked up, if I remember right, in the long-gone Firestone store in town. The record, fairly generic recordings by a studio orchestra, had exciting things like the overture from William Tell (which, in the knobs, we still call The Lone Ranger), piquant ones from Victor Herbert musicals, and “Indian Summer” sung by a men’s chorus, the first tenors achingly sweet as they hit the high notes.
As best I can find with some cursory research, Dorsey wrote and recorded “Indian Summer” around 1940.
Call me a redneck or some such, but I have always preferred Glenn Miller to Tommy Dorsey. Miller recorded the song, with vocals by Ray Eberle, during the war years.
You’re the ghost of a romance in June
going astray. . .