Clad in well-worn cotton shorts and shirts, we started the day alternating between scorching sun and suffocating shade, maneuvering our bikes between old paint cans and lawn chairs like the drivers at the Marsh truck rodeo, or resting on a blanket under the huge black willow playing Barbie and Janney dolls, with old Jane West always the granny.
Bored, we’d change into jeans and head to the pasture, its tall weeds prickly, yellow and brown, sticking to our pant legs. The collapsed, rusty shell of an abandoned corncrib became our trampoline, and we jumped to its metallic shrieks of protest. By afternoon, we proudly wore dirt necklaces and held honorary membership in our childish version of the Blackfoot tribe. Inside the dark kitchen, the sharp woodsiness of black tea leaves simmered on the stove. Measuring cups overflowed with dusty, white sugar as Mom dumped them into the ancient blue pitcher from Great Aunt Hazel. She poured the hot tea through a metal strainer, its steam and aroma filling the downstairs. Then stirring, stirring, we watched the sugar mountain dissolve into mahogany syrup and savored its sweet, thick summery smell. Finally, eyeballing just enough syrup into a plastic pitcher Mom filled it with cold, iron-infused water straight from the faucet. We guzzled down an ice-filled glass before being shoooed outside. Vagabond children wandering along our narrow country road, we meandered from home to home, none of which was ever even faintly cool. Banished outdoors, we dug in gardens and dirt piles, unearthing dog's teeth and burying our treasures. When the sun threatened, we found cool, shady hideouts, under the weeping willow in a friend's side yard, or beneath the overgrown shrub that hid a secret culvert under the road between the cranky man's pasture and the nice old lady's front yard. We were spies, keeping track of everyone who drove down our road.
When the August heat made everyone sweaty and short-tempered, we’d ride bikes through the dusty lane to Mamaw and Papaw’s house to run through their fancy sprinkler. Straight from the deep well, its cold, hard water arced and sprayed over our heads and dribbled down our sweaty-dirty skin, creating stringy hair and short-lived relief. our shorts and shirts finally soaked, we’d sit on the back porch step drinking the Fizzies Mom never bought or slurping a grape popsicle before biking back home. The heady aroma of crisping bacon pulled us back inside at supper time. With six to feed, Mom used the pressure cooker pot for a whole pound of bacon. For starters. As the grease soaked into layers of paper towel, she sliced juicy red, vine-ripe tomatoes, straight from the edge of our pasture and lined them up on the pale green Melmac tray Dad used for his occasional cornbread and beans feast. A loaf or two of soft white bread and a jar of Miracle Whip on the table, and our favorite summer meal awaited: bacon and tomato sandwiches- no lettuce required. After supper, the fading sunlight mottled through the leaves of the young willow that grew at the edge of the garden. I sat, wedged in a fork of the limbs, my current book in hand, reading, but mostly dreaming of someday, when I had something unique to say-- to write--so I could also call myself an author. Finally upstairs, in the attic turned bedrooms, heavy, still air made everything sticky; it glistened on our faces and arms and glued our nightgowns to our legs, threatening any chance of blissful sleep. Dragging pillows and flat white sheets, we thundered down the stairs to claim our "air-conditioned" tent: two corners tied to the box fan handle, two stretched out and anchored under chair legs. The sheet billowed in the false wind, a pretend sail on a summertime ship, and our sweaty selves finally dried as we drifted off to distant rumbles outside the open window.
