This time of year always makes me sit back and
think about times gone by. I grow a bit nostalgic, and just a fleeting thought
can fill my eyes with tears.
The weather cools too quickly for my aching
joints, but years ago, it never bothered me a lick. We boys in the neighborhood
would arrive home from school, change into our old play clothes and shoes, and
let the screen door slap the jam as we ran to the side yard for a game of
tackle football. Games lasted until dark. We’d stop only when the call “Supper”
drifted out of doors in the neighborhood. We swept off the dust with our hands
and rubbed grass-stained knees before turning toward our houses. It was a sad
time because we knew that night would swallow the rest of the day and deny us
more plays of glory until the next afternoon.
Even though fingers and toes numbed from the
drop in the temperature, we boys were covered in sweat from the game. The smell
from a young boy is a mixture of dirt, exertion, and hormones. Feet proved to
be so smelly that shoes were required until bath time. We quenched our thirst
during those epic football battles with water straight from the hose. The taste
of plastic flavored the water, but no one care; it still revived us enough to
continue the game.
When Jim and I walked toward the door that
opened into a hall next to the kitchen, we noticed that the windows were
steamed. That was the sign that supper was cooking and almost on the table. No
matter what the menu included, we were always ready and willing to eat. To the
right of the door was a huge oven, an oversized appliance that could cook six
pies at a time. The same pots with which Mother began housekeeping sat on eyes
of the stove. They’d hold such things as stewed potatoes, hominy, soup beans,
and corn. Another vessel would be filled with meat or spaghetti and sauce.
At the far end of the room sat a large round oak
table. Chairs surrounded it, and as soon as we sat, the warning not to lean
back in them greeted us. Plates and silverware were set and ready for the
onslaught of three brothers who could devour all the prepared food and still be
hungry. A large glass of milk was poured for each of us, and they would be
filled again midway through supper. Mother warned us to hold our forks correctly
and not to use them as shovels.
The best thing in that kitchen was Mother. She
sat upon her S&H green stamp stool, and in front of her were a cup of cold
coffee, a pack of cigarettes, and a pad and pen. While she
After supper came time for homework and baths.
We’d sit on the edge of the tub as the water ran and splash it in an effort to
make Mother believe we were washing ourselves. Sometimes we were caught and
sent back to “do it again.” We donned pajamas, watched a little television, and
then made our ways to bed.
The outside temperatures quickly cooled the
block and plaster walls. We curled up underneath quilts that our Mamaw had
made. They warmed our bodies, and we drifted off to sleep.
Those were good times, but I don’t want to go
back. I love my life now, my wife and family and friends. Still, I miss those
carefree times. I also miss Mother and my brother and several of the boys with
whom I grew up. This evening I’m going to walk down to the yard where so many
football games took place and just spend some quiet time remembering. I’ll look
on my way back inside my house to see if the windows are steamed.
