Skip to main content

The joy of summer

I’m alone on the porch.

Outside, my kids run and play in the twilight. The smallest, a sports nut, has organized an impromptu neighborhood football game.

Their stadium is the street. Their turf, the asphalt.

Clay goes long and catches a well thrown football. Not bad for a 10-year-old.

On the driveway, my daughter, Sara, hovers with a covey of girls. They giggle and gossip — the conversation is hushed, but if you watch closely, you’ll see Sara throw a quick glance quickly at the tanned blond boy on the skateboard (who manages, easily, to stay just within eyesight).

In the distance I can hear the drone of that damned ice cream truck — it plays the same song over and over and over. I like ice cream, but I really would like to deflate this guy’s tires. Thankfully, he bypasses our street, exiting the neighborhood after a long day of pushing frozen treats.

It’s warm and the evening is clear.

Quietly, Ethan walks his little brother down the street. Zach simply looks around him, taking in the world.

Nearby, I hear the distant hum of central air units. I say a quiet prayer of thanks for the inventor of Freon.

In front of me a fat, busy bumblebee zooms back and forth looking for a flower. Beyond his pulsating wings, I watch the heat rise off the black pavement; nearby a spider stretches a web from the front of my car to the garage. I hate to tell him, but tomorrow, when I leave for work, his web will be ruined.

A breeze stirs, rearranging the dust from the street and irritating the tomcat snoozing in the bushes below me. Bear, the feline, tolerates few interruptions. He’ll complain, but eventually, he’ll return to the shade of the shrub and his regularly scheduled nap.

I slip back inside the house — it’s cool and dark.

Karen brings me a beautiful smile and large glass of ice-cold water. I pull her close and together we stand quietly — almost reverently — and watch as our kids scamper and play — they are oblivious to any problems, concerns or issues.

And for a few minutes, our world is at peace — bathed in the glow of a warm Oklahoma sun, and the knowledge that summer doesn’t officially end until Sept. 21.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show. Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.” Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community. “Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.” Church officials denied...

Pink Toes

Zachary has pink toes. Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction. My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned. The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed. For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under. She walked out the doors sobbing. We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life. ...

The more things change, the more they stay the same

So I’m standing in a large darkened gym, watching a bunch of middle school kids fake like they are dancing — and for the record they’re not very good. I’m here, because in a moment of weakness, I told my school teacher-wife I’d help chaperone. The music is loud. Between 40 and 50 kids line the walls — boys on one side, girls on the other. The dance floor is empty. I’ve been here before. About 30 years ago. Over to the left, there’s the arrogant little twit who is sure he’s the perfect specimen of masculinity. He thinks he’s immortal and he honestly believes that every girl here is dying to hook-up with him. He struts around like a rooster, high-fives his buds, and practices that same look Rod Steward made famous in 1975. Rod’s version was way better. Thirty years ago this kid’s name was Jimmy; he started on the eighth grade football team and his Dad bought him a real motorcycle. He was just sure he had qualified as the Alpha Male of the eighth grade. Superjock is talking to the standar...