The Hissing of Summer Lawns

The Hissing of Summer Lawns

It's unofficial, but. . . yea.  Get out the grill.  Hot dogs and hamburgers, ice cream and watermelon, lawn mowers and beach chairs, and of course, the summer's reading list.  It's what we all long for.  Groups of friends playing badminton and horseshoes, outdoor showers where sandy feet get rinsed, the glowing tan from summer sun.  

The fantasy has many times nearly killed me.  And yet, I still believe in it the way I believe in the Dick and Jane version of American life.  

Ain't I something?  

Married life had been much like that.  The year I got divorced, I was determined to continue on.  I bought an ice cream maker.  I fired up the grill.  I kept cut flowers on the table.  I drove to the coast regularly to go surfing.  

Alone. 

This year, though, it will be ma and me.  Yesterday I took her to the grocery store for "a little outing."  I swear to God, I am a good caregiver.  She is doing better all the time.  She pushed that shopping cart around without jamming up traffic nearly as much as once upon a time.  We bought some kind of crazy, rich donuts with a cream inside.  Fruit.  So much fruit.  Cut watermelon was BOGO.  Blueberries.  Apples.  Navel oranges.  Bananas.  Kiwi fruit.  But we were there for shrimp.  I bought a pound of pink shrimp from our own coast.  Yellow rice.  Sliced pimento olives.  

Cookies.  

It was on the cookie aisle that we ran into a woman from the gym.  The first one.  She is older than I and bent with scoliosis.  Everyone at the Club Y asks daily, "How's your mom?" But this is the first time anyone has seen her.  

"Mom, this is my friend from the gym.  We walk on the treadmill together."

Jane was lovely and told my mother, "You have a wonderful son."  

"Yes. . . he is."

Onward.  A pretty, tan, young blonde girl with a great figure and little gym shorts cut to show the bottom of her glutes and just the beginning of her vaginal crevice was talking to a taller blond boy.  As they walked away. . . oh, those little shorts were climbing.  I looked at my mother and she began laughing.  

"That's what they do," I grinned.  My mother shook her head, still chuckling.  

"It's just like the t.v. show we watched last night."  

It was the one with the blonde high school teen getting naked with her boyfriend.  My mother nodded in agreement.  I think this girl could be the same one as the one on t.v.  Interchangeable.  They have the internet.  They all look like that. 

We were headed for the beer aisle.  Coors Light for mom.  "I haven't had this for awhile," I said picking up the Dale's Pale Ale.  A woman, perhaps my own age, perhaps a little younger, was looking in the cooler.  It was hard to tell.  She was big up top with swizzle stick legs, wearing a pair of short shorts and a blouse.  

"What kind of beer," she grinned.  

"Dale's."

"Oh. . . my husband used to drink that.  I divorced him.  Then he died."

"Do you think it was the Dale's?"

"He never cared what I wanted to drink."

We wandered on down the aisle, the woman still looking after me and smiling.  

"I think she wanted to drink some beer with us," I said.  

There were only two checkout lines open.  I told my mother to get into aisle 6 while I took back something she didn't want.  But when I got to aisle 6, my mother wasn't there.  I looked around and spied her at the opposite end of the store.  As I went to pick her up, the beer lady passed.  

"You're not getting into this line?"

"I gotta get my mother."

"She's fast, that one.  She's been all over."

"What are you doing, ma?"

"Huh?"

"I said aisle 6."

"Oh, I didn't hear you."

But she had done her grinning and nodding of her head in affirmation the way she does when she hears but doesn't. 

We got into line in aisle 5.  It was shorter.  But the beer lady was ahead of us.  She was trying to pay with a card that wasn't working, and she was being a bit quick with the cash register girl who has something physically wrong with her, her face half paralyzed and twisted, but she seems to be o.k. mentally if just a tad slow.  Just a tad slow is almost twice as quick as most of the others working there, though, and she is the sweetest girl.  I often make her laugh.  

The beer lady tried a second card, but that one didn't work either.  The young boy who was bagging tried to help her.  

"It still didn't go through," said the cashier.  

The beer lady looked at me and said something about the credit union being all screwed up.  

"I'll just pay cash," she said.  The bagboy schlepped her things together and the cashier said, "I still owe you money."  

As the beer lady was leaving, she turned to me and said, "I know you."  This was the second time she had said this.  I really didn't have a reply.  

"You don't remember me.  I used to work out at the Y."

"I still do," I beamed.

"I remember you." 

I just stood a moment, grinning, my head moving in a small circle.  

"Well. . . it's good to see you again."

I must admit, I'm always surprised that anyone can still recognize me.  Cool.  

My mother had a lotto ticket worth ten dollars, so we stopped at the help desk so she could cash it.  The nice boy working there got the walker he had stored for her.  I gave my mother the walker and took the cart.  Outside, Jane from the Club Y said, "I'm going to have shrimp and yellow rice tonight, too.  I'm glad you said.  That sounded good."

"Sliced olives are good in the yellow rice," I said.  

"Ooo. . . o.k. I have some.  I'll try it."

Back home, we cracked two beers and sat in the open garage porch.  It was hot, but a breeze had picked up, just enough to move the air.  

"I saw a kite yesterday.  They are quick.  It was here and gone."

I love watching the kites with their distinct V-shape.  I thought they were the fastest of raptors, but I was wrong.  I looked it up.

No, kites are not considered fast birds compared to other raptors. They are instead famous for their incredible agility, grace, and endurance in the air. 

While a true speedster like the Peregrine Falcon can dive at over 200 mph, kites are built for effortless gliding and tight, acrobatic maneuvers rather than pure straight-line speed.

Yes, that makes sense, I guess.  They are truly fun to watch.  

In a bit, I went in to start the rice.  I decided to make a Campari and soda rather than the Rum Negroni I have gotten addicted to.  I took the drink back to the "porch." I sipped it.  Yes, this was good.  I would leave the Rum Negronis alone.  This was fine.  

I went back in to put the water and apple cider vinegar to boiling.  Once the shrimp went in, it would only be a couple minutes.  I prepared a bowl of ice water.  I went out and called to mom.  I mixed up my homemade cocktail sauce in little ramekins, heavy on the horse raddish.  

We ate the entire pound of shrimp.  I think my mother was peeling faster than I.  When there were just two left, I handed her one.  

"I can't eat any more."

But she did.  

At the end of dinner, I wished I had the ice cream maker.  I think it is still in my garage.  But we had watermelon that was juicy and sweet.  

And that, my friends, was our almost kick-off to summer.  Today will be the usual Memorial Day dinner of hot dogs and hamburgers, etc.  

Maybe I should have saved that Sly song for today, but there are plenty of summer songs.  I'll find something for you kids.  See you on the sound.  Don't track sand into the house.  Rinse your feet.