Anyone who has grown up in the sultry South knows this time of year.
It’s those hot, humid, not-a-hint-of-breeze, lazy days of summer.
The summer work frenzy is over, we’ve taken our vacation and it’s just too hot to start any major new projects.
The fish don’t bite, it’s not the season to hunt, a quick trip to the store is a sweaty task and the garden is fading fast.
Farmer’s know it, merchant’s hate it and even church attendance suffers.
This becalmed time of year infects the newspaper business, too.
The clowns in Washington have adjourned for the summer and have headed home to campaign and smile. The wedding and family reunions are over and schools are empty except for summer school.
It’s the perfect time to catch one’s breath.
Quiet Time
I first learned about this time of year as a child from my grandfather – Floyd Ingram No. 1.
We used to sit in our front porch swing in the hottest part of the day and listen to the cicadas drill and watch the cars pass.
He didn’t mind my brothers or myself climbing into that old blue swing “as soon as you quit sweating and settle down,’’ he would say.
My grandfather smoked. It was the era when tobacco was touted for its calming effect and long before the Surgeon General deemed it a nasty habit.
He also rolled his own.
I can still remember him calmly and patiently pulling that Prince Albert can out of this pocket and giving me and my brother that look over the top of his glasses.
It was the signal to not move a muscle.
A carpenter by trade he slowly creased the cigarette paper with hammer-hardened hands and laid it tenderly between index and middle finger.
Three slow shakes of the can evenly distributed the mellow brown, finely cut tobacco the length of the paper.
A quick roll of the fingers – and it was our turn.
One of the lucky guys in that swing – one who had been appropriately still and quiet of course – got to lick the gum that would seal the cigarette and the experience.
Then we would then sit and watch the bumble bees pillage the nandina blossoms, look for squirrels in the pecan tree or listen to the blue jay out on the lawn, as my grandfather soundlessly smoked.
Wordlessly
I’m in the word business now and pride myself on vocabulary, facts and the ability to verbalize a thought or idea.
But as the lazy days of summer move toward fall, I am reminded that the best memories are those silent, quiet, wordless moments people spend together.
A scenic vista with your favorite girl at your arm, a child quietly nestled in your lap, a silent prayer sincerely sent to heaven – those are the moments that seem to make time stand still.
They are those quiet times that live so loud in our mind forever.
Floyd Ingram is the Editor of your Clarksdale Press Register. You can quietly Email him at floyd@pressregister.com.
