Still September

Closer and closer to bidding a gentle Farewell to Summer, though afternoons are stretching wider than wide with a pink light that just says LINGER.   Summer HEAT has a way of smothering AND enhancing a lot of the glories of the season, like watching those tiny green tomatoes swell just from sunrise to sunset, gaining in girth and juice and promise, and of course:   Home Grown Tomatoes---totally a Reason for a Season.

SWimming is good, and ice cream, and coldcold watermelon, and dancing in the sprinklers, as well as sleeping with not much on but a fan.  Popsicles, bike rides, A/C, cold wet washrags just wrung out of the ice chest and slapped on the back of your neck at the lake.

 Wide-hipped funeral parlor fans and a big old umbrella at a ball game.  Little kids giggling as THEY race in and out of the sprinklers, the hose, the front door nekkid, with those joyously-scared, gleeful screeches. 

A big gray weathered picnic table in the shade, home of cookout suppers, watermelon cuttings and fish fries for three generations---all spread up with the usual Summertime fare of whatever each family is partial to, potato-salad being the closest-guarded secret in the bunch.

That dusty corn patch with the brand-newest ears and the crackly-smitttch of the husks as you peel them back to expose the rows of milky pearls.   The eager hunt when little children find out the secret hiding places of radishes and carrots, spotting the tiny gleams of colour beneath the flourish of stem, and unearthing them with the fervor of an Easter Egg Hunt.  We’ve had so many standing in glasses and jars of water in the fridge we didn’t have room for the milk and eggs.  

 Driving along country roads with the windows down, feeling that unmistakable shift in coolth when you pass a grove of trees between you and the sun.   You can just feel the trees breathe their coolest breath onto you from those untraveled havens.     Flowin' wells with the coldest, clearest water on earth, and even if you don't want a drink, you sure want to take off your shoes and let it gush over your feet. 

A big old hand-crank freezer out in the shade on a Sunday afternoon, when the city cousins come out from town, ready to look down on your country raisin' and remote location, and leave wishing THEY lived near a swimming hole, good climbing-trees and all those watermelons, right there to choose from.

The tiny translucent golden thumb-plums and the huge musky purple ones swelling with a surfeit of Summer juices, and the blackberries and dewberries plumping in the bramble, enough to make braving the thorns a lesser thing than leaving all that sweet temptation for the birds.

The look of Southern shade on a Summer afternoon, as the shadows across the lawn grow longer and more ancient, somehow---something about the dying of the day brings shadows totally different from morning shade, with the sun-slants and more lazy colours---we'd know what time it was anywhere. 

 The scent of a backyard grill or a real barbecue pit, sending up the scent of smoky pork like incense to Heaven.  I've never done it, but I'll bet sitting up all night in a rattly aluminum-and-weave  foldin' chair beside that big brick pit or fancifully-shaped-and-painted rig, as a whole pig relaxes in the heat and becomes succulent and tender, falling apart like shattered roses---I'll bet that experience, with the attendant cooler of beer, the Vy-eenies and crackers and hoop cheese and the tales told again and again, to the same close folks as last time---doesn't that seem a thing for a Bucket List? 

THE FRONT ROOM

 

Mammaw’s first house had but three rooms, leading right on through,

From front door out to back porch, as all shotgun houses do.

The middle room had a table, round and black on sturdy feet,

With her bed across the north wall; in the corner stretched a sheet

 

To make her only closet, and a parlor stove at hand,

With a big Rococo organ, draped in aprons, hats and fans,

And over time that organ pealing out those hearty swells,

Took on a close resemblance to a melted carousel.

 

 

To the back there was the kitchen, with an oilcloth old as Time,

With Amana stove, the fridge, and Hoosier cabinet in a line.

The back porch had the mop, the broom, the washtub on a nail, 

And a little wooden stand to hold the wash-up pan and pail. 

 

For, as far back as a memory, those had stood there in that place,

And every one who entered knew to wash their hands and face,

And give a lick-and-promise with that time-worn brush or comb,

To pay the homage due the entrance to their Mother’s Home. 

 

But the FRONT ROOM, (living room, bedroom, nursery when I was small)

With its bedroom suite and couch and chair, LIFE writ every wall.

On the Dresser dainty doilies with a red-thread scarf to match,

And on the wall beside it, a stuffed bass---a lucky catch.  

 

Above the sofa hung an uncle's old M1 Garand,

And on a shelf beside it on a little marble stand

Was another uncle’s Purple Heart, beside his tin canteen,

Still in use for hikes and camping, still a valiant Army green.

 

And the sent-home-from-Korea silk-embroidered pillow case,

Inscribed “MOTHER” in the middle, with a framing of red lace,

Even Grandpa’s platform rocker had a scarf across the back,

With the week’s worth of COMMERCIALS down beside it in a stack.

 

And his spit-can so discreetly on the porch all cleaned and shined,

With his plug of Red-Man in a hand-stitched bag with hearts entwined.

For he never smoked or chewed during the day, although he could,

When you stand so close to clients, it’s important to smell good.

 

Dull grenades and shiny wasp-tails on the What-Not by the spoons,

With the tiny wooden outhouse Salt-and-Pepper’s crescent moons.

The velvet red pin-cushion of a turtle on a rock,

Sat beside a rosy teapot, whose reverse side was a clock.

A Gas Company match-striker in a cactus stood to hand,

With the cigarettes and matches over on the Smoking Stand.

And a swaying Navy-blue-flocked silver-script "GOD WILL PROVIDE,"

In the gentle oscillation of the humming fan beside. 

Through the smoke and dust of Memory, these things shine through the gloom,

Of that house that held my Childhood, and the PAST in That Front Room.   

SSSSIGHTS AND SSSSOUNDS

 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 abruptly 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 burger or hotdog just because, thinking wistfully of the days of Ganner's incomparable ham wafting its intoxicating aromas from the grill.   The weather IS, indeed, magically changed by a wand of wind which blew in these perfect blue skies and sixties breezes with this once-in-a-century Blue Moon, 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:  

 A barefoot-stomped yard with the patch of zinnias against the shed---Big Ole Bubba-Flowers, zinnias, in their stiff, Raleigh-ruffed gaudy colours and a hardiness to the petals and wiry stems that will outlive many a graceful foxglove and tissue-curled snapdragon.

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.   The life-affirming hum of Clover-drunk bees playing accompaniment to the best of Summer Music:  the 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, and settling into your pillow as the last dreamy sound of the day is the comforting midnight moan of a faraway train.

NOT MUCH OF A PLOT, BUT LARROQUETTE'S IN IT

 

Those are the words I heard John Larroquette say to maybe Johnny Carson many years ago, about the epitaph he wanted over his grave.  So clever and apt.  

Thank you to the several people who e-mailed recently to ask why I don’t publish my blog, or at least some of the Southern stories.  I so appreciate the great compliment and confidence, but I’m not at all a plot-smith.   And though I’ve had lovely reactions to the small bits I write for LAWN TEA, it’s just descriptions mostly, and you can stay interested for JUST SO LONG in colours and expressions and postures and events; you gotta have a PLOT.

There are vast MASTERS of that, who weave stories out of whole cloth, with warp and weft swayed to accommodate truth or lie, deeds or thoughts. Close-up or back-up-and-squint, their stories have pattern and sequence, woven through with threads which provide texture and strength to the whole.   And then there are those who patch their stories out of the frayed edges all the way around, winding and darning until the tale rings true, if thin.  Somewhere in there, I guess I must work around the selvage, not matching up with the whole picture and having none of the pattern, just some mismatched threads.  I think I just skip-hop around the periphery of stuff,  knitting up a few little flowers there, embroidering a pile of leaves amongst the snarls, some hard-as-a-hickry-nut moments in the knots, or some fronds of lazy fern-waves as the action goes on behind the sheers.

It’s the centrals, the life-patterns and the true colours of the REAL that evade me.   Just prinking a plot together would probably stretch my feeble brain and drive me to making voodoo dolls.   It’s like me and card games---I can trump whatever you put down there, but haven’t a clue in Killarney what to lead with next.

Adjectives are my friends.  Never met many I didn’t embrace and claim for my own, and since there are so many, I scatter-shot them haphazardly across hill and dale, with plenty left for the ditches and the ruts.   I know all about spare prose; I read the tight, terse words, strung together like perfect pearls.  Given one of those exquisite sentences, I would be struck by the purity and absolute perfection of the statement.  If the same thought were my own, I’d be throwing in descriptives right and left, seeing in my mind all the intricacies of the idea, then watching those pearls slide right off the string into a great mudhole of modifiers, to be lost beneath the mire.

In my hands, “Call me Ishmael,” would have deteriorated into this great doily of introduction up to and including bows and curtsies, with segues into once-removed, and that whale-hunt would have outlasted Ahab, Whale and Pequod.

But a plot, now---that’s just not in my telling.  I’d start out a few lines, then veer wildly between whatever I’m reading now, maybe some Ivanhoe, a bit of Grafton, three lines from Hamlet, a Reacher brawl, some Odyssey, a little Captains Courageous, some stolen string theory, a smidge of Princess Bride, a page or two of Tarzan, and wild wavers between Idgie Threadgoode and Raylan Givens.   All the while visualizing, as I do, the diverse group of all the fabulous character actors whose faces and voices would fill the parts.

 There are supposed to be less than half a dozen plots in the known world anyway, and they’ve been used and re-used and re-written and convoluted and plagiarized and re-purposed til the cows come home.   Don’t writers ever worry that the exact set of circumstances they’re writing so feverishly about, with all the new-to-them labors of their harried, fertile brains, might have been published in 1898 or 2004, by some housewife from Little Rock, still unknown and stuck with several hundred languishing copies?   There they’d be---not having read those particular stories, with a year’s worth of work and re-write and edit and submissions and rejection slips, all finally accepted by HarperCollins and ready to go---and then falls the ax on the whole deal.

I'll just hang right here, overdoing the descriptions, with nowhere to go but down another prosy path too overgrown with words. S'all I got, folks.  

COUSIN MARVELLA

 

A Letter to Marthy Tidwell:

                                                                        Aug. 13

Dear Aunt Marthy,

 

You won’t believe Cousin Maryella was wearing lipstick last time I was home.  She was different all over, somehow, with a shine to her in the morning like no girl I’d ever seen.  She’s always been a shy one, a down-looker and a hair-nibbler, y’know, and gettin’ on her Mama’s Last Nerve just pulling that strand across her face and the ends always wet.  Aint Bird called her Old Cowtail and told her how nasty it looked.

 

And she sure thought she’d outgrow that, like biting your nails, but as Maryella graduated and reached nineteen this Spring, nothing happened until she got The Letter From State.

 

You know she’s always been real smart and all, and always got really good grades, and she got in, but the Letter itself is what turned the tide.  When I went over there from Mama’s house last weekend I didn’t know hardly who I was lookin’ at.   She had on a blouse with a flower on it, and those jiggly earbobs, and was laughin’ fit to bust, and I had to look twice at those big blue eyes to know her.

 

She smiled BIG when she told us to call her “Marvella”---she had a whole new name, and we were to call her it.   She said she was looking at The State Letter the next day after it came, and the sun come through just right onto the envelope where a biscuit-crumb had fallen slap-dab on bottom of the Y, to make it a whole different name, and she was now Marvella for good and all. 

 

It just sounded better than Mary-yella, and sounded like somebody in an Iron Man show or something.  She said she woke up feeling stronger and lighter, too, and was gonna see about getting’ it changed on her driver’s license and all.   She’d already written to State on her acceptance, and told them.  

 

She knocked off the little doohickey from the bottom of the Y to make her name fancier, just by Pure-D accident, and the whole world changed.

 

I’m still just marvelin’ at it myself, and thought I’d get y’all word if you hadn’t heard about it. You won’t BELIEVE it when you see her.

 

Gotta run to the Walmart for some more of those broke sacks of Miracle-Gro stuff for the new raised garden---Guy saves me the ones that come in torn.   You won’t believe the tomaters this year, either! Haha

 

Your loving niece,

Amanda