Let's Ramble

If it were possible to pocket a piece of summer; fold its essence within an envelope, I would. I'd remove this slice of season when needed, or better yet, when my mood suited. Like last night.

I'd just wheeled our garbage container to the street. A nice warm south wind carried the scent of sweet flowers and pushed the Spanish Moss. The moon was bright. The river flat and glassy. Perfect. Warm enough yet not hot. My kind of summer. A slice of summer children remember.

The adult me hates summer. I find its heat uncomfortable. But once in a blue moon I find a taste of my youth in the months of June and July. Seldom August. Yet, late summer nights often make me smile. Now, if I find a way to bag just a few moments of what I experienced last evening think of the possibilities of its use during those long cold and dark winters ahead.

*****

With the children out for summer vacation the street and park seem abandoned. Business has grown to a crawl. It's slow. Believe it or not the basketball courts are empty. Even the Urban Campers have ducked beneath the earth.

So, I clean firearms. My hands smell of gun oil. I should dab a bit beneath my ears. Stuff smells kinda good and has been noted to work out the wrinkles. We'll see.

Sweet Wife has never said but I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts for my weird habit of firearms cleaning during those nights of movies and certain television shows. Me and my little bottle of Break Free, bore-snake and shop rags, two or three handguns....keeps me busy. I've an old Colt Official Police that has been cleaned so often it absolutely sparkles. She sits upright on my mantle with a shotgun shell thru the trigger guard. I have the old girl filled with vintage rounds of .38....just seems right somehow. Old firearm, equally old ammo. She stands guard just above an ancient rabbit eared shotgun. My Colt came into this world before Hitler invaded Poland.

Told you. This is a ramble.

*****

Over at Gander Mountain this weekend I found the shelves filled with ammunition, well, other than what I wanted, but none the less, the place held tons of boom-boom. But, the prices were silly high. I mean, damn. I passed.

This price increase, I believe, is the new normal. Guess it's high time I dusted my loading bench and lubed the press.

*****

Now, if you'll please excuse me I've blogs to read and comments to answer.

Go thump a watermelon and smile.

Stephen


   

Ah, Just Sweat

Fact: We live in Florida, and our state is hot and humid. Air conditioning is required. If you don't believe me, try living here without it. Within a week mold will cover your walls. You'll find yourself shucking clothes the moment you walk inside the front door. Indoor pets have been known to commit suicide. The very air you breath is heavy with moisture. Step into your garage and within seconds your body glistens with beads of water. Plain and simple, it sucks.

We're on our forth day without this wonderful life saving system of Mr. Carrier. Our new five ton system was installed less than eight years ago. The compressor in our Carrier is supposed to be under warranty. As such we've had to wait until the local contractor received approval from Carrier with assurances they would indeed honor their warranty, otherwise we'd eat the bill for a new fan compressor. Our quoted estimate was a bit over two thousand dollars, not including labor, coolant, and of course, taxes. (Just received word, the part has been deemd worthy of warranty, thus saving us a few bucks.)

Here's the catch. The part is located in Orlando and if it arrives by 1500 today a fix might take place Monday. After 1500 the nice lady said possibly Tuesday. Here's the thing...the first hot humid air of the season (We're well into Summer here.) arrives, tomorrow. I shall practice the sweat drip dance and make extra ice for sweat (not sweet) tea.

Now where oh where did I hide my loin clothe.

Stephen
     

BENGAY to You Too

I often overhear people say, "I ache all over." Well, duh. When I have body aches and pain I just hurt, all over is just a given, and at present I ache, ah - all over. So there. It's time for a tube of BENGAY.

After a long night and deep sleep I was awakened to a flash jump into the future. You see, the silly government, in all its omnipotence has once again taken our lives, and time, and flushed away the winter season and slapped us into the dead of summer. I hate it. In our youth winter slowly became spring which gently gave us the extended hours of long summer nights filled with fireflies and dirty bare feet.

It's time to put this silliness to rest.

Anyhow, I spent six hours out in the garage hard at work on my current restoration project and now, oh Nelly, tonight I shall pay for my lost youth.   

Sadly tomorrow I must knuckle down and try and finish our taxes, if only because somewhere out there in the wilds of Detroit a liberal needs its Obama phone.

Hey, how many of you remember Roy Rogers? Good. Now, what was the name of his sidekicks Jeep?

You are now excused....

Stephen

Bah, Humbug

Today, as you all are very aware, is the first day of summer.  Ah, yes. Watermelons, Independence Day, back yard cookouts, iced tea, and beautiful ladies in their bikinis - what's not to love.

Well, in fact, summer. I hate it. Bah, humbug. Tell me of its wonder as the season rolls into August when I can step from my cooled home into our garage and within fifteen seconds you've been turned into a puddle of sweat and your very breath could light a fire.

Okay, the girls in bikinis and the fireworks aren't so bad. You can keep the rest....

Stephen

A Day Of Rest

This morning after church I spent an hour or so building a large pot of chili. As I worked I glanced outside my kitchen window and watched a very wet squirrel run along our back fence on his way towards its hickory tree and nest. I chuckled and continued to work accompanied by the music of rain and wind.

It's this wind and rain that has me cooped inside and not able to work on my project...wet and paint are not compatible, which is fine. After all, its just a hobby - like this blog, which I'm sad to say seems to have lost its purpose.

Hence, the chili.

I've noticed chili has a subtle scent...and tends to build in intensity as it simmers. At first, after all the raw ingredients are composed and mingled together and you've thrown in a pinch of salt and a dash of your secret spices, the dishes tangy smell is light and holds close to itself and doesn't perfume the  whole of the kitchen.  But, after a few hours over low flame and while you're reading a novel or about the house at other chores you'll find yourself swimming with chili peppers and onions, like a walk down a wooded path bordered by jasmine, its inescapable.

*****

While I composed in the kitchen Sweet Wife went about a few chores of her own. She bundled together a few items for the wash, dusted a ceiling fan, and changed our bed sheets; she went towards flannel saying it was time as it's October and since we both like flannel sheets I didn't argue. Besides, she believes she's the boss.

When she finished she came into our family room and began to watch a movie. A chick flick titled, 'Message in a Bottle.' A standard tear jerker. An hour or so later I walked in to find her fast asleep. She's lovely when she naps. Due to her back she naps while upright and the tilt of her head makes me wince in pain. As she sleeps I tiptoe.

I've shut down the movie and now its quiet with only the sound of the wind and the air conditioner, and of course, me tapping away on this keyboard. I like quiet Sundays. It reminds me of my childhood when we'd all gather on my parent's front porch for seasonal activities. Spring and early summer would find us shelling fresh peas or beans or shucking ears of corn. Deep summer, in the heat, we'd have the old hand cranked ice cream churn whirling away with my mother's homemade peach ice cream inside. Autumn was likely to find us plucking the feathers from game birds, mostly quail and duck, for the oven. Winter was citrus.

 Our home was surrounded by orange groves interspersed with the odd grapefruit and tangerine tree. Since I was forced labor during the winter, hired to fire the wood and oil pots during those rare winter freezes, I was allowed to pick as much citrus as I wanted and could use as long as I didn't waste the bounty. Nothing, and I mean nothing, went to waste. My mother loved fresh squeezed orange juice and it was my job to gather at least a bushel every Saturday afternoon for a Sunday front porch squeezing session.

I remember sticky sweet pulp and its acid favor and the way my mother's dress bunched between her legs and my brother's laughter when I'd chunk a wet glob of fruit in his direction. The taste and smell of the rind which I loved to nibble and the way the yellow jackets gathered for their share of the sugar loaded juice and the white enameled pan used for the gathering of the precious liquid. I remember how my mother carefully funneled the juice into her old gallon canning jars and how the next morning I'd steal into the kitchen and take the now ice cold blue bottles and carefully sip the most perfect nectar on God's green earth.

I remember how we'd spread the rind on newspaper and place it to dry under the hot sun and then gather it into feed sacks for cattle feed. I still remember those cold gray mornings as I lugged those same sacks to feed lots, the rind since fortified with molasses and other herbs, and how when the feed was thrown into the stalls it gave off the now intensified odor not unlike mahogany, dense and sweet and smoky.

 
If you've spent anytime at all on a country farm I'm sure you too can remember those early mornings with the tangy scent of wood smoke, those faint traces of some old farm wife hard at work at her woodstove baking fresh biscuits as the country ham sizzles in cast iron and she readies her coffee for the redeye gravy. I remember it. The far off slam of a screen door that travels so well in the cold air, the faint train whistle, the forlorn cry of geese as they pass over the creek on their way to a nearby now brown cornfield.

Remember, just after a shot at a covey of quail, the whiff of gun powder and the way the Hoppe's Number Nine never seems to wash off your gloves. How the frost killed grass crunched under your boots as you moved towards the fence line after the dogs. Lunch under a pine tree that consisted of those little cans of mystery meat and crackers and a thermos of coffee. The wonderful weight of birds tucked away into your vest and how you'd always stop and gather spent shells of red and green and yellow, now faded but still markers to long lost hunts of the past.

Remember the weight and soft feel of the stock of your favorite shotgun and now how badly you wished you hadn't sold it. How it climbed so smoothly to your shoulder and how gently the front bead came naturally to your eye and the rise of the covey, and then the sweet swing and shot, smooth and graceful because and as a result of your long lost youth.

I do.

*****

There is little rhyme nor reason to my writing today. You must excuse me. I just write what pops into my mind. Guess I'm lost in melancholy.

I just remembered I have a pot on the stove and ran in to stir the mess. I believe I'll put a pot of coffee to boil. I haven't had a cup since before daylight. Each and every time I reach for my cup Sweet Wife bats it away. But, now she's deep into a nap. Please, don't tell on me.

I promise to make greater efforts in updating my blog. I can't believe I've gone so long without answering your nice comments. I truly don't understand what's wrong with me. I feel like a caged animal. The rains of today haven't helped, as a matter of fact it's set me back at least a week on my current restoration project. And, when I am able to paint and if I'm not pleased with the results, it might take me three more weeks....he hisses.

Please, take care out there.

Stephen







 

Summer

In truth I hate summer.

I hate its heat and humidity, and the almost constant glare of the sun which makes dark glasses and wide brimmed hats and soft cotton clothing with bandannas a necessary uniform of all Southern men and women.

Then again there is much I do like and enjoy about summer.  The early mornings on my deck just after sunrise, the overnight breezes cooled with the scent of the marsh and oak mast and how the Spanish moss shifts and swings with the slightest caress of the wind and how the birds sing in subdued cadence as if still adrift and lost in an early morning dream.

I like how the summer brings us the smell of fresh mowed lawns; the rich cut odor of green. The first of season farmed picked watermelon, hard and heavy, and when thumped, promises that rich and cold sweet taste of our lost youth. 

The laughter of children as they jump and play and splash in kiddie pools hidden within the back yards with their plastic beach balls and the way the little girls long hair plasters to their cheeks and the silly giggles that make me smile and remember.

And shade....shade and shadows make summer bearable especially when afloat in an old wooden jonboat with your canepole and a small can of worms and the waters are tea colored with tannin and how the cork slips gently beneath the water and you feel the strong pull of a bluegill and as you fight the fish you can smell the musty sharp scent of the swamp and how the suns warms your shoulders and you know for certain this is the best day of your life.

I like the beach on a hot summers day with a good chair, a large umbrella, a cold beverage and a book as the seagulls scream for my attention and the lovely ladies in their perfectly fitted swimsuits, all legs and smiles. The wind brisk and cool off the waves and I like the sound of the surf and how my toes feel cool as my feet sink into the wet sand. Though the best part of a day at the beach is the cold shower afterwards and then how a tall glass of cold sweet tea, drained quickly, returns my life to normal.

When I was young the best part of summer were the evenings, the quiet moments with just the song of crickets and tree frogs and fireflies; those little winks of bright green. The joy as we chased and bottled their glow for our bedroom and how we feel asleep to a gentle yellow green night light of dreams. Fireflies are the fairies of soft summer evenings.

I like too how in the deep dog days of summer, when I'm out in the yard and if I stand quietly still, I can hear the cicadas with their tree hugged screamed mating song, and if I'm lucky, I might catch an occasional long distance and forlorn whistle of the Bobwhite quail, which evokes memories of my childhood summers and long naps in a hay field just before the late afternoon thunderstorms came charging in off the coast.

Then we have Independence Day - the best part of summer. This day, the forth of July, is to me the essence of summer. The birth of our great country with its fireworks, and backyard grills with sweet brambly sharp toned odors of burgers and hotdogs. The backyard tables dressed in checkered cloth loaded with watermelons and slaw and bakedbeans and ice cold pitchers of tea and metal buckets filled with beer.

I love best the evenings after all the food has disappeared and the chairs are moved just so for the evening of fireworks and fun. I like how the children gather and each after the other light their little sticks of sparklers and how the cheery red bits shower down and how the little girls scream and the boys dance and tease each the other. I love the distance boom and heavy thunder when the main show begins out over the water. It's not unlike warfare of a long now almost forgotten nightmare of battle. A battle of remembrance for those ghost of the night responsible for our celebration. 

Really, I do so hate summer.

Stephen