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Glistening from the heat

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I watched the white shears wave gently back and forth in the windows of the living room as the breeze eased its way into the house.

It was an extraordinarily hot day. By midmorning the coolness gained in the previous night had given way to the demands of the sun making everyone glisten in anticipation for the afternoon that would change all of us into a cross between a drenched cat and a swimmer climbing out of the deep spot in the creek. That is except for the woman folk whose glistening would be fought off by the thick application of scented powder on face, arms, and torso.

When the heat was so extreme, I often thought the ladies in my neighborhood carried a powder puff with them everywhere they went.

When there was no breeze and absolutely no chance of finding relief by a stroll by the creek of sitting in the shade of a massive oak, the ladies would gather up the young folks and load us into station wagons and away we would be whisked for an afternoon of looking and feeling at Woolworth’s, JC Penney’s or Richs which all had the tremendous advancement of air conditioning. If we were lucky that might materialize into a visit to an air conditioned theater to watch a movie carrying us through the heat of the day so that by suppertime, we would be able to gather in the breeze on the porch or in the yards.

It is amazing how the heat never really bothered me much as a kid. I knew it was hot but that was just the way it was and we did what we wanted to creating adventures around the neighborhood. We built forts out of down tree limbs, gathered pine cones storing them up for massive battles between each other. We ran, rode our bicycles, played baseball, football, kick ball, dodge ball, whatever brought us together and created activities allowing us to engage with one another. I was at a disadvantage in much of these activities due to my health but despite limitations, I tried allowing me to win sometimes, fail sometimes and build the initial experiences upon which my life would be built.

The street lights would come on and after supper, most of the kids would gather in the street for a game of baseball as the parents and neighbors sat in chairs on porches, stoops or under trees cheering us on as we gave it our all.

I can still see myself wearing a pumpkin colored short sleeve shirt half buttoned up with burgundy colored shorts standing in the middle of the street playing outfielder with my older brother’s baseball give. I would try to catch the next pop fly that Bruce, Jennifer, Charlotte, Art or Bubba might hit and then coming up to bat only to be out as I rounded the man hole cover, which was second base, as Kay or Charles tagged me. Eventually as the darkness enveloped us, we each would hear the calling home of one of our parents and we would give in, relinquishing another day to powers beyond our control. As we reached the doors, we looked like we had a bath and often smelled like we needed one.

For many of us that was shortly our next stop before a few minutes of TV and then off to bed until the sun summoned our rise again as it sent its rays through the holes in the window shears making a funny design on our faces and pillow.

The smell of bacon cooking would draw us to wipe the sleep from our eyes, hurriedly throw on some clothes and move us towards the kitchen to begin another odyssey of adventure among our family and friends. The sound of the slamming of the screen door, and the heat of the day often beckons such sweet memories that are seared into my memory when life was not as comfortable but each day held such opportunities.

 It’s hot, I’m hot, you hot?

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I pedaled as hard as I could up the hill. I was headed to my best
friends house hoping to get a group together to head to the pool.
I wasn’t much of a swimmer but in the heat of the summer, spending
some time there on a hot day broke up the heat.
As long as you were in the water you were cool. The only thing that
was hot was the cement when you got out and walked in your bare feet.
It made a huge difference on those long summer days. We were too far
to bike to the pool, so we had to convince an adult to drive and drop
us off or go swimming themselves.
Usually, we could find someone to take; it was harder to get a ride
back. No one wanted to haul wet kids in their cars. Especially, if
the car they drove had cloth seats in it. Sometimes you got lucky and
found someone with vinyl seats or simply a pickup truck, so we could
all just climb in and sit in the bed. There were none of those pesky
rules about car seats and such back then.
As I mentioned, I wasn’t much on swimming but I had learned all the
basic strokes and enjoyed it to keep cool. It took me a few summers
to work up to it but eventually I got brave enough to climb the high
dive and go in. The short dive was never a problem. Heights were not
my thing. The diving board with water under it wasn’t that scary, I
think I was more afraid of doing a belly flop at that distance. It
not only hurt pretty badly. I know from experience. But you would get
a pretty good teasing from everyone.
I had enough of that without doing anything!
Anyway, the pool was a respite from long days out in the heat riding
the roads on my bike, playing hard in someone’s yard, or playing
board games while sitting in someone’s floor. Of course, no one had
air conditioning, so being outside after a certain time of the day
was actually better than being inside. You found a shady spot and
hoped for a breeze if you got too hot.
We often played games in the woods. The tree cover generally brought
the heat down by about 10 degrees or more. So, we built a lot of
forts and had a lot of imaginary battles.
About 3:30 in the afternoon, we would hear the sounds of music coming
from the ice cream truck, and if we managed to save up enough we
would line up for some frozen treat that made the day. They didn’t
last long. It lasted just enough time without melting to make it
worthwhile. The frozen cone dipped in chocolate with nuts was a
favorite or sometimes the push up. orange sherbet.
If we did get to go home at some point, we would run for the kitchen
open the refrigerator and stand there letting the cool air flow
around us. Of course, that always got the admonishment of my mother
if she caught me. But it was worth it some of the time.
The heat reminds of those days. Maybe not fondly, but I look back
with a since of nostalgia that does cause me to long a bit for those
times again.
I have however figured out how to reduce those urges and it seems to
work. I turn off my air conditioning for a couple of hours and go
open the refrigerator door and look longingly inside feeling the cool
air pour out around me.
It’s not quite the same without my mother’s raised voice coming
from the other room, but it does ease the nostalgia just a bit.

A leaf falls in time

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The sun’s rays offered a great warmth to my cheek as I began my walk along frog leg creek. It had been many years since I eased my feet along the path I had run along so swiftly as a boy. The water in the creek churned up a froth as it swirled over the rocks aiming its strength at forcing the water south ward. A large brown leaf fell with a thump upon my head. Perhaps it wasn’t quite a thump, more like quick poke.

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A tool bag full of answers

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With my nose pressed against the window, I anxiously watched for the arrival of my father from work. With him he would often carry a large, black leather tool bag which, for a little boy like me, held a world of adventure.

After dinner, Dad would spend time at the kitchen table working on various fix-it projects.

I would walk by the table where he was working on some gismo. It is amazing how many little parts would be meticulously set out where they could be cleaned, re-worked and replaced. Every tool had it’s purpose.

“Can I help you daddy?”

“Yes, son. Get me my pliers out of my tool bag,” he said.

I would search through the bag to find the pliers. With each odd looking tool I would say, “Daddy, what do you do with this?” He would tell me, even though he knew I would ask again the next time. Finally, I would find the tool he asked for and hand them over.

He would say, “Just in time.” He would do some little something with it and then set it neatly with the other tools.

Thinking back, he probably did not need those pliers, but he found a use for them anyway just so I could say I helped him fix whatever it was.

Usually as he was nearing the end of his project, I’d run in and ask, “Dad when will you be done?”

He’d say, “Soon son, soon. When I get these tools cleaned up.”

My father was a man of tools, and with them he accomplished great things. The tool bag to him was like a doctor’s stethoscope or a preacher’s bible — it helped to solve the mysteries in his life.

He had the ability to fix almost anything. I am sad to say the mechanically-minded trait did not pass down in my genes.

Much of what my father did for a living rotated around his ability to fix things.

During his life, he worked for several companies fixing everything from Singer sewing machines to Royal typewriters. The job he retired from spoke highly of his abilities to adapt to new technologies. He was responsible for keeping the computers at the IRS running. I’m not talking about these little personal computers. I’m talking about when super computers ruled the world, and they took up the space of nearly a football field.

When he passed years ago, many of his tools came to me. Some are still packed away as he left them. Many of the tools I have no idea for what they could be used. I keep them simply because they were his.

More and more, I find myself doing various jobs around the house. While I am still not mechanically inclined, with patience I usually manage to figure out how to fix whatever it is. Many times I find myself looking through his tool bag for tools that might be put to use in my objective.

My father Floyd Franks died in August 1987 and one year later in August 1988, God sent another fatherly figure into my life, a television icon to all the world, but to me someone who in many ways picked up sharing fatherly advice in my life. One day, the late Carroll O’Connor and I were standing in a pawn shop set on “In the Heat of the Night” looking into a case of tools and knives. We talked about how you can often judge the character of a man by how he cares for his tools.

If he has respect for them, that will be reflected in his life. My Dad took care of his tools and he shared that respect with me.

Today we often depend upon others to fix things we cannot. Oftentimes this tendency carries over into other aspects of our lives as we look to others to fix things which are broken.

Patience and respect will lead you to solutions that can solve many problems.

The tools to fix them are often just inside your own tool bag; you just need to take the time to look.

These are lessons, we also share with Pearl and Floyd Franks Scholars as they embark on their lives continuing the traditional music of Appalachia. Learn more about how you can help make a difference in the lives of our scholars at www.shareamericafoundation.org.

Glistening from the heat

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I watched the white sheers wave gently back and forth in the windows of the living room as the breeze eased its way into the house.
It was an extraordinarily hot day. By mid morning the coolness gained in the previous night had given way to the demands of the sun making everyone glisten in anticipation for the afternoon that would change all of us into a cross between a drenched cat and a swimmer climbing out of the deep spot in the creek. Read more

Barefoot freedom

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One of my favorite feelings as a kid was achieved by walking barefooted through the cool grass in the early morning.
I think for most of my childhood, shoes were simply an accessory wore when you went to town. Otherwise, there was nothing covering the bottoms or the tops of my feet. The bottoms were always a little tender as the transition from cold weather shoes happened but once the soles of the feet were hardened a bit, the only thing that became problematic was crossing blacktop in the heat of the day. You would cross the road like a duck on a bed of tacks exclaiming “Ow, Ow, Ow” for however many steps it took to get through. Then you would stand in the grass until the burn lightened up.
Despite this minor inconvenience, walking barefooted would carry us everywhere we went from neighbors’ homes, on bike rides, to the pool, to the local store, to the creek and the woods and everywhere in between.
Maybe once or twice a week, my mom would call me in from play saying we were going to town and then I would have to remember the last place I put my shoes, take out a fresh shirt and get ready for an afternoon of “lookin’ and feelin’.” This usually meant a little fun along the way, maybe an ice cream sundae from Woolworth’s lunch counter or maybe even an afternoon movie matinee.
If I was lucky enough to have a friend along, to my mother’s chagrin, it could mean a game of hide and seek around the clothing department as she and one of her friends looked through the racks. The games would be short lived as soon as my mother noticed with a promise of discipline if we did not settle down. In most cases we did. However, there were a few times which pushed the envelope and developed a hand-shaped red tattoo on my posterior.
No matter the experience, I cherish those memories of the days when bare feet strengthened my understanding of the world. Each step toughened my soul and took me to so many adventures which fueled my imagination and gave me hope that another adventure was always just a few steps away.
If you are far away from these days, why don’t you take your shoes off in the morning and walk across your back yard in the cool of the morning, or drive to a nearby creek and stick you bare feet in the water as it rushes by. Find that barefooted hopeful youth who once fueled your dreams to uplift your spirit.

The honeysuckle pull

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The sweet smell of honeysuckle lightly drifted over the back porch steps as I sit at the top of a thirty-step descent to the ground below. At three-years-old this was a surmountable achievement to navigate these without tumbling to the bottom. And in reality my mother was always watchfully standing by looking through the porch door as she ironed to make sure I did not rush beyond my abilities and go scampering down the steps.

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Needing something you don’t have

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Water faucet and refrigerator leaks, garbage disposal freezes from
working, blower motor on heating and air conditioning unit wears out,
dryer timer goes out, and the blinkers on my cars quit.
There is an old saying that says “When it rains, it pours.” I
feel like I have been on a never-ending marathon of late, fixing one
failed system after another.
I simply rise up in the morning wondering what the next adventure
might be that I will have to fulfill.
Thankfully, my folks gave me some great primers on life insisting I
learn the basics about most elementary fixes to household and
automotive problems.
Despite the skills learned and the available information now
available from experts on the web, inevitably, as I progress through
the basic repairs, I have learned one great lesson. There will always
be one more thing that is needed to complete the job.
Whether it’s another tool, or another needed part – because one did
not work or it turns out it was actually something else which was the
problem; I seem to always be ending my efforts, getting into my Ford
Explorer and driving off to the hardware store, being sure to use my
arm signals, to deposit more in the Ace or Junior’s Hardware bank.
Why is that the nature of such experiences? I must have made three
trips just yesterday to only have to return again today still trying
to complete the same project.
I, however, set out this weekend to break the mold. I vaguely
remember my late mother often commenting that my dad spent much of
his time rushing off to buy a tool that he already had but could not
find. A trend that has blessed me as I inherited his tool collection.
But that being beside the point, I really think this time allowed him
to clear his head from a tough fix-it job.
So, this time before I headed off for my hardware fix, I spent some
time going through my many boxes of stored away items to make sure I
didn’t already have what I needed.  Guess what? I didn’t. So back
into my Ford Explorer I went for another adventure scanning the
aisles at the hardware store.
I guess I need to invest some money in hardware stocks. One thing’s
for sure, their profits will be up because of me and all those like
me.

Visitin’

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In the past, I concluded that the art of visitin’ is a thing of the past for much of America.

With the onslaught of the pandemic and its various restrictions, I fear that this traditional pastime of folks across the U.S. has now seen its end.

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Visitin’

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I am coming to the conclusion that the art of visitin’ is now a thing of the past for much of America.

I can remember as a kid, as dinner time came near, a neighbor or family friend would just happen by and mother and dad would ask them to pull up a chair and mother would set another place at the table.

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