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.
Scary Times
When we walked into the room, there she was. Monitors and IV’s hooked everywhere, and my little girl looked so pitiful. She was tired, as any woman who has been through labor understands. Still, it was Lacey, and to me that made it different. The good news was that Amy and I had it made to Nashville before the baby was born. The saying that God looks out for fools and grandparents who speed down I-40 at eighty-plus miles per hour proved to be true.
Neither Amy nor I was emotionally out of control. Sure, we wanted to be present upon the arrival of our first grandchild, but for some reason a calm had grabbed hold of us. In fact, we discussed this, and I wondered if we were bad grandparents because of our even temperaments, but Amy answered with that look that screams “Goofball.”
That attitude was a good one to have. We were greeted with news that scared us stiff. At some point, Lacey’s blood pressure had spiked, and she had a strong contraction, all of which put her and the baby in distress. The nurse said she suffered what our generation knew as toxemia. When the event occurred, about ten people had rushed into the room and begun hooking up drips to the IV and shoving forms to be signed in Nick’s, face. Only two words can describe the situation----SCARY TIMES!
Lacey called the nurse back to the room to explain all that was occurring, and shortly the doctor came. The decision was made to perform a Caesarian section. Doing so would ease the distress on both mother and child. Waiting for Nature to run its course could have meant that the child would have been born as much as a day later. It was a “no-brainer” decision.
The nurses hurried us out and banished us to the waiting room with the promise that we’d get to be with Lacey after they got her ready for surgery. Computer, cameras, books, and cell phone in hands, we marched to our assigned area. Several calls were placed to family and friends. I settled down to check emails. In about forty-five minutes Amy and I wondered when we could see Lacey. She went to find an answer and hurried back. It seems that no one came to get us and when Amy went to check, the nurse informed her that Madden Joseph Chemsak was lying in the nursery.
We grabbed belongings and half-sprinted down the hall. The boy lay in all of his glory under a “French fry” light. He was squalling enough to alleviate concerns about his lungs. A couple of weeks early, he still weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces and stretched nineteen inches long. Much of his upset was caused by the attending nurse who busied herself by giving the child a couple of shots and taking his temperature rectally, something I told Amy was enough to make anyone mad.
Nick was with the boy and looked every bit the proud papa. Lacey hadn’t come out of surgery, and that bothered me. I was thrilled to have this new addition to our family, but nothing would be all right until my little girl came back for me to see and check. Probably another thirty minutes passed before she was wheeled back into the room, but we still couldn’t see her.
Finally, the nurse gave the go-ahead, and I made a dash to the door. I walked to the bedside, looked at my little girl, kissed her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired and groggy. I didn’t care as long as she was okay.
For the next twenty-four hours, Lacey wasn’t allowed to have any visitors other than grandparents. The commotion of visitors tended to elevate her blood pressure. All she could have to eat were ice chips or Popsicle.
Worst of all, Lacey wasn’t allowed to hold Madden after she returned to her room. The staff was concerned about her health, and not until her doctor came did she get the go-ahead to hold the baby, but that was more than half a day after he was born.
We visited Lacey about noon the day after, and she, Nick, and Madden were together. Amy took a turn, and then I held the boy for a couple of minutes. What was most important to me was seeing Lacey and knowing that she was all right. I relaxed just a bit then. Those were scary times. After all, Lacey was the one I once held just moments after she was born. Knowing she was safe finally made the birth Madden a completely joyous occasion.
Neither Amy nor I was emotionally out of control. Sure, we wanted to be present upon the arrival of our first grandchild, but for some reason a calm had grabbed hold of us. In fact, we discussed this, and I wondered if we were bad grandparents because of our even temperaments, but Amy answered with that look that screams “Goofball.”
That attitude was a good one to have. We were greeted with news that scared us stiff. At some point, Lacey’s blood pressure had spiked, and she had a strong contraction, all of which put her and the baby in distress. The nurse said she suffered what our generation knew as toxemia. When the event occurred, about ten people had rushed into the room and begun hooking up drips to the IV and shoving forms to be signed in Nick’s, face. Only two words can describe the situation----SCARY TIMES!
Lacey called the nurse back to the room to explain all that was occurring, and shortly the doctor came. The decision was made to perform a Caesarian section. Doing so would ease the distress on both mother and child. Waiting for Nature to run its course could have meant that the child would have been born as much as a day later. It was a “no-brainer” decision.
The nurses hurried us out and banished us to the waiting room with the promise that we’d get to be with Lacey after they got her ready for surgery. Computer, cameras, books, and cell phone in hands, we marched to our assigned area. Several calls were placed to family and friends. I settled down to check emails. In about forty-five minutes Amy and I wondered when we could see Lacey. She went to find an answer and hurried back. It seems that no one came to get us and when Amy went to check, the nurse informed her that Madden Joseph Chemsak was lying in the nursery.
We grabbed belongings and half-sprinted down the hall. The boy lay in all of his glory under a “French fry” light. He was squalling enough to alleviate concerns about his lungs. A couple of weeks early, he still weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces and stretched nineteen inches long. Much of his upset was caused by the attending nurse who busied herself by giving the child a couple of shots and taking his temperature rectally, something I told Amy was enough to make anyone mad.
Nick was with the boy and looked every bit the proud papa. Lacey hadn’t come out of surgery, and that bothered me. I was thrilled to have this new addition to our family, but nothing would be all right until my little girl came back for me to see and check. Probably another thirty minutes passed before she was wheeled back into the room, but we still couldn’t see her.
Finally, the nurse gave the go-ahead, and I made a dash to the door. I walked to the bedside, looked at my little girl, kissed her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired and groggy. I didn’t care as long as she was okay.
For the next twenty-four hours, Lacey wasn’t allowed to have any visitors other than grandparents. The commotion of visitors tended to elevate her blood pressure. All she could have to eat were ice chips or Popsicle.
Worst of all, Lacey wasn’t allowed to hold Madden after she returned to her room. The staff was concerned about her health, and not until her doctor came did she get the go-ahead to hold the baby, but that was more than half a day after he was born.
We visited Lacey about noon the day after, and she, Nick, and Madden were together. Amy took a turn, and then I held the boy for a couple of minutes. What was most important to me was seeing Lacey and knowing that she was all right. I relaxed just a bit then. Those were scary times. After all, Lacey was the one I once held just moments after she was born. Knowing she was safe finally made the birth Madden a completely joyous occasion.
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