"Dad, I am really depressed," my son, John, said to me as we drove down the highway last Wednesday. "I can't believe I am going back to school. Where did the summer go?"

It was a dreary day. The slow, rhythmic pulse of the windshield wipers set the tempo for the sad adagio to summer's end. That it was pouring rain was only fitting for a spring and summer that broke all records for precipitation in the Northeast.

"You got to go with me to Mexico," I reminded him, "and the following week you went to Florida with your cousins. That sure beat hanging around New Jersey all summer."

"I know," he said. "But it just seems to have all passed so quickly."

Leave it to a 14-year old sophomore - the word means "wise fool" - to wax eloquently philosophical at 7:00 A.M.

And I hadn't yet had my first cup of coffee.

As we rode on in silence, my son's gloomy mood jogged memories loose from my own past of several first days back to school.

It seems it was, in fact, always a dreary day. I would be wearing one of those bright yellow rubberized rain parkas that, mercifully, modern technology has replaced with Gortex and other breathable, waterproof fabrics.

I'd be waiting out in front of the house alone, when suddenly a big, yellow school bus rounded the corner. It was filled with excited, screaming kids but the bus's windows were all fogged up so you could only hear them. They sounded like they were having a good time.

How they had it all together on the first day back still remains a mystery to me.

I was simply miserable as I climbed the stairs of the bus and took my seat.

My poor son, I thought to myself. It's genetic. I passed this curse on to him. Like father like son - he can't even escape from my melancholy memories of summer's end.

We drove on, finally arriving at the Hen's Roost, a cozy restaurant on 202 that boasts "The Best Breakfast in Oakland." It's a tradition we've shared on the first day back to school and every Friday throughout the year.

Jim Amos, the owner, was behind the front counter where he's always carrying on several different conversations with at least three people while juggling someone's fried eggs with one hand and flipping someone else's pancakes with the other.

There's a reason why we come here the first day. A wise man once told me "The world looks like a better place on a full stomach." As my son and I sit down, I notice the odor of bacon, coffee, toast and hot grease begins to work its magic.

Jim is usually talking about one of three things, the New Jersey Devils, deer hunting or upcoming NASCAR races. But today he notices us immediately and changes gears.

"First day back to school?" He asks with an innocent, slightly evil grin.

"Yeah," my son says without meeting Jim's eyes.

I can see he doesn't want to talk about it, so I quickly remark about the huge New Jersey Devils Stanley Cup Champions poster in front of us on the wall, guiding Jim back to familiar conversational territory.

"It's a tough day for us," I add.

Several minutes pass until finally a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on a fat Kaiser roll is set down in front of my son. He's ordered the same breakfast for the past six years. It's huge compared to my two poached eggs sitting atop the split halves of an English muffin.

We pray together and eat in silence.

After breakfast John is in a better mood. We head back out to the car. Dodging raindrops, I remind myself of what Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes: "To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven."

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