Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Jelly In My Pocket

Where I come from, we had bottomless wells. In my day, mad dogs were the biggest threat in summer. Well, after the Klan, and we didn't see much of them. We searched for months for the mythical "firecracker hill" where the Birmingham police dumped all the confiscated fireworks.

Soldiers- kids, really- were returned by ambulance, in vegetative states, from the Korean conflict, to spend what life they had left in the twin bed that they had slept in through high school.

If you turned on the radio, Hank Williams would probably sing. Of course Hank died on New Year's Day, 1953, but in Alabama, that was just a sanctified career move. It always seemed like the ice cream would never be ready. Best to leave the cranking to the grownups to keep our minds off of it. The first sparkler is okay. Once you've written your name and burned two cousins, the excitement is gone.

The pursuit of lightning bugs could use up another five or ten minutes. 

Finally, ice cream. Peach ice cream.

Here's to summer.

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