The Sounds of Summer

I heard my first cicada of the summer a week ago. It’s such a distinct summer sound, especially since they call in the daytime, usually in the heat of the day. I don't hear them nearly as much in Tennessee as I did growing up in Georgia, so this was a treat.

That sound screams ‘summer’ to me. It is forever wrapped up with long, lazy, hot Georgia days spent mostly in the shade of deep woods, climbing trees or swinging from them, building trails or playing made-up games. I remember what a drink of water tasted like before water bottles, when it was right out of somebody’s hose. I smell freshly crushed pine needles from climbing saplings. I see the deep, almost black purple juice that comes from poke salad berries when you crush them (it’s really purple on your clothes, though. And it doesn’t come off, either). I remember the smell of scorching hot pavement, wet from a summer thunderstorm, and playing in the garage with the door open, listening to rumbling thunder and pounding rain hit the driveway outside.

Cicadas are for bike-riding days, when we raced up and down the street, putting our feet on the handlebars as we flew down the hill, the wind cooling us when nothing else would. They’re for days of playing on the slip-n-slide until it was a puddle of red mud at the bottom and we all had swimmer’s ear by that evening. Evenings of catching lightning bugs and imprisoning them in a mayonnaise jar with holes poked in the top, just for an excuse to run around in the dark.

Cicadas are childhood to me, I guess. I hope someday they mean the same to my boys, wherever they end up, but somehow I think their memories will be different. Tennessee doesn’t have pine, it has cedar. We don’t live in a subdivision, but in the country. Their friends are mostly each other. I can’t let them roam nearly as freely or as far as I did. But the games of childhood haven’t changed - they enjoy riding their bikes and swinging from trees. They run and chase one another in the gathering dusk, and lightning bugs are still fascinating. Long, carefree days can still be magical. I do love summer, and its short duration reminds me: this is a season of life to hold on to with both hands.

Spring is here, so my sinus cavities tell me

The Volunteer Peach household had a lovely visit with my family this weekend - which means five adults and five kids in a three-bedroom house. Family togetherness - there's nothing like it!

Every Spring when my mother comes, she raves and raves about how green it is here. The greenness is due to what I affectionately call (especially after last summer's drought) the monsoon season. We normally receive so much rain here in the spring that we temporarily become a mushroom haven, all over the yard. As soon as the grass dries from the last rain, an amazing roar is heard -- simultaneous cranking of every lawnmower in the vicinity, as people sprint to cut their yards before the next shower.

I really love spring, all the new leaves and blooming flowers and trees and, actually, the rain. The main reason I love the rain is that it washes lots of pollen out of the air. Because my allergies are so bad that even Allegra, Flonase and Advair doesn't completely keep them at bay. So, generally, I enjoy spring through glass. It's kind of like a terrarium in reverse -- all the beautiful stuff is outside, and I'm in -- the house, the car, that kind of thing.

So, given those facts, what on earth would make me decide to go camping with my two Cub Scouts this coming weekend? Insanity, I tell you -- it's brought on by all those pregnancy hormones, and apparently never wears off. I wonder if it's possible to whip up an Allegra/Zyrtec/Claritin cocktail?

When did Shoney's decide I'm in their target demographic?

I have a couple of friends who like to go out for breakfast. So, we're not ladies who lunch, we're ladies who breakfast. Perhaps that says something about us. Something like, we're cheap and easily distracted. Oooh, look at that shiny thing over there! What was I saying??

Actually, I don't even care for breakfast (just give me a cup or three of coffee and nobody will get hurt), but I am a friendly sort (or really I'll just jump at any chance to get out of the house), and so I go along. Last week, we went to Shoney's for the breakfast bar. It's probably an undeserved reputation, but Shoney's, to me, is redneck-o-rama. Right up there with the Awful Waffle in my view. Particularly in the morning on a weekday -- when most people who are not self-employed are already at work. However, again with the getting out of the house - at this point, beggars can't be choosy.

So, we're sitting there, having our typical mom conversation about our kids, the school, how different our older kids are from the younger ones, (I know, if you're not a mom -- major snooze factor, here) and I keep getting distracted by the music. It's like the 80s festival all up in there - I heard Paula Abdul/Forever Your Girl, Paco/Puttin' On the Ritz, and something by The Outfield. At one point, we commented that the only thing was missing was Michael Jackson (at which point we all made the skeeve face). So, what do you think was played within the next 10 minutes?

Now, I have a Theory. If I am in a store and they are playing songs from my teenage years (yes, I did grow up in the 80s, thank you very much), I figure they're pretty obviously targeting my age group, in the hope that as I'm bouncing along, happily reminiscing, I am filling up my buggy without noticing. I have noticed this phenomenon in both Wal-Mart and Michaels. That did not, however, bother me, because when I looked around, many of the other shoppers, were in fact, noticeably close to my age. However, if Shoney's is looking for my age group, and when I look around, I don't really see anyone who I think resembles me in age or situation, what does that say about me? Perhaps, you might be a redneck, if????????