I
have such a love for the sssss of September’s beginning, as with all words
which go so gently into the air like dandelion fluff. September. Susurrus.
Sigh. Season. South.
Silver. Sibilant. Soothe.
And the beginning of the month itself, long
such a beacon to me through the heat and humidity of those Southern Summers, is
something of a calendar day to a lot of folks, I’m learning. I’ve seen blogs of special dinners and garden parties and teas, in
these just-past two days, all celebrating the closing of the Summer season, and
the belling-in of the coming parade of holidays in swift array. But the joys of Summer---somehow snapped and
zipped shut in so many places by this Labor Day weekend---closed down and
boarded up by the calendar, as if mere Time controls weather and mood---that’s
always seemed strange to me, like trying to tell a toddler he’s sleepy just because it’s
eight o’clock.
We’ll
celebrate this weekend with a birthday or two, a lunch on the freshly-furbished
and scrubbed patio, with rainbows and unicorns and the scent of Ganner’s
incomparable ham rising from the grill. The
weather IS, indeed, magically changed by wand of wind which blew in these
perfect blue skies and seventies breezes, after such a hot and wet season as we’ve
not seen in a long time.
But
somewhere, here and there and around, the sights and sounds and scents of
Summer linger like that last ray of sunset, reluctant to dip away and fade
out. And the ones I remember most are
the ones of long ago, still vibrant and beautiful, in my dreams:
Chickachickachick
of an old rotary mower as the rusty silver blades cut a path through the
ankle-high grass; the Summer skrish of yard-broom sweeping the grass to the
ends of the rows.
The
sound of the big old pecan trees in our yard, way up high in the hot, dusty
boughs, as I hid from Mother to read through a lot of those long Summer
days. The scrunch of separation as two
small grubby hands divided a Popsicle, the sharing and the inevitable drip
offset by the deep draw of eager lips.
The whitening of the ice as the dyed juice was sucked away, like the
fading shine of sand when the tide withdraws.
The
coppernickel tang on your hands, the smells and sounds of slingshots and marbles
and BBs and all the other tools of a child’s happy trade. Snap of slingshot, hiss of ball bearings or
rocks through the air. Satisfying smick
or thunck, depending on target. Click of
marble on marble. Deeper toned THUNK of
throwin-knife into a target or post.
Smack of ball into glove and crack of bat-meets-ball.
Which-a-which of the old tall-necked copper
lawn sprinkler, peeping up through the grass like a preying mantis as the
water-drops fly.
The
steady, solemn hum of fan-blades suspended in a white-raftered church; the
unobtrusive wielding of wide-hipped funeral-parlor fans as the sermon rises in
tempo and tone, and the competent, officious rush of white-clad, no-nonsense
Lady-Ushers to the side of the faithful, too-overfilled with the Spirit and
fainting from a combination of heat and zeal. How I loved those purpose-in-life, take-charge women, with their calm caring and their confident air.
The
sweetest thunkch as a shade-cooled watermelon falls under the knife, giving up
its heart on a battered picnic table.
Splashes and happy shrieks as children frolic through sprinklers and run
heedless through another Summer afternoon.
And the open-windows sleep-sounds of a million peep-frogs, as a faraway train wends its way through the night.
Any vivid Summer memories you'd like to share?
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