One recent Saturday evening, Amy and I sat on our porch. The temperatures had cooled enough so that the ceiling fan provided enough circulation to keep us comfortable. We read a while, and when I took a break, the falling darkness surprised me. The time reminded me so much of earlier days of my life.
One part of Saturday evenings that I always remember is the rhythmic, repetitive song of the cicadas. They’d taken the place of birds that in the spring jabbered both night and day. The summer melodies were interrupted only by the bark of a dog or the occasional engine roar of a passing car. Trains passed constantly throughout the night, but we were too accustomed to the echoes of their horns and the zing of their wheels upon the rails to have paid any attention.
After the family came inside for the night, our ritual began. Mother had found a few minutes between washing clothes, working in the garden, and cooking meals to take a bath and fix her hair. Her head was covered in gray curls that were tightly wound and kept in place by what seemed to be hundreds of bobby pins. By evening, she’d taken her station at the ironing board where she worked through a basket of clothes. Scattered throughout the living room were pants stretchers that held jeans for Daddy and us three boys. Three pairs of boys’ shoes had been shined for the next day’s church, and clothes had been laid out.
Daddy had plopped down in his chair, a platform rocker, and hoisted his feet on the matching ottoman. My twin brother Jim sat in the floor and applied globs of Deep Heat to Daddy’s ankles that were perpetually swollen from standing on concrete floors throughout his work shifts. My older brother Dal and I found our places, and the five of us passed the time watching our favorite shows, “Perry Mason” and “Gunsmoke.”
Going to bed was a curse and a blessing. Summer nights were humid and provided only a whisper of a breeze coming through open bedroom windows. A box fan in the living room whirred as it tried to move air through the house, but the efforts were in vain. Dampness from the thick air fell on beds. The sheets held a fresh scent from having been dried on the fifty-foot, double clothes lines in the back yard, and they also were scratchy to the skin.
We’d taken our baths before bedtime but spent little time drying off with towels. That water and perspiration made pajamas stick to our skin and made beds all the more uncomfortable. Jim and I shared a room, and for too long we lay on twin beds and suffer through fits of giggles until Daddy came to the door with the final ultimatum: be quiet or face the belt. When we did lie still for just a couple of minutes, sleep that was so peaceful and deep came quickly, and we thought no more of discomfort from heat and humidity.
Oh, I appreciate air conditioning and cable television, and computers and all modern conveniences. Still, sitting on the porch after dark and looking toward the house where I grew up, I miss the people who were my world back those many years ago. A father, mother, and brother have passed. Jim is still here thankfully, and I am blessed with a wife, two children, a son-in-law, and a grandson. Folks don’t come outside much any more because we’re all spoiled by air conditioning. Locking ourselves inside sure deprives us of conjuring up memories of good times from years gone by. I hope that folks can spend some quiet time on a porch or in a chair out in the backyard so they too can recall summer Saturday nights.
Beach Thoughts
Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
Beach Thoughts
Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
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