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On the wide-planked porch of my grandfather's house, I savor an invigorating
breath of country air. No smog, no stench from paper mills, or refineries
belching grimy steam to irritate the sinuses or coat the throat with cloying
fumes.
I fold the jacket of my suit over one arm, look down at my feet and smile as
I wiggle my toes inside the sheer nylon. I've come home, and memories flood
my mind.
Suddenly, I'm seven years old again and stand barefoot next to the tank of
lukewarm water alive with darting minnows. "Lift me up, Grandpa. Let me
see."
The day is clear, the sun high and hot, but not nearly as hot as a
month ago. Seasons change so fast. Almost Labor Day, 1955, and summer's end
has come too soon.
The best summer of my life.
From the highway below, another fisherman bound for the Trinity River pulls
into Grandpa's sprawling yard to buy bait and with it, an ice-cold melon or
two. In dusty cars and boat-towing trucks, they've come in a steady stream
since sunrise.
"City folk," he calls them. But not with anger or disrespect. Grandpa seldom
raises his voice.
The men wear funny hats with shiny lures attached like Christmas ornaments,
and khaki vests with more pockets than I can count or they could possibly
fill. Some smoke cigarettes. Others puff on pipes smelling of woodsmoke and
vanilla. They chat with Grandpa, busy at the tank. He dips the little net
and scoops the slippery, silvery fish, then drops them in water he's poured
into dull metal buckets.
He gives me a huge grin and winks, like there's this magical secret between
us. But, then, everything about Grandpa Fred is magical, from his shirt
pocket stuffed with candied orange slices to the blue baseball cap shoved
high on his head of salt-and-pepper hair, and his silly jokes that make
Grandma Minnie's cheeks turn pink.
He moves to the covered tank on the other side of the oak tree, its shade
already shrinking, and lifts the lid. This tank smells different. Not tinny
like the minnow tank, like its high walls are lined with old nickels, but
earthy and dank. He reaches in with a callused hand and turns the rich,
moist soil. A dozen earthworms struggle to rebury themselves.
I squeal and laugh, caught up in the excitement a child finds in a sticky
Texas afternoon and a handful of wriggling worms. Grandpa laughs, too.
"Our Sherry's got potential," he tells the tall man with the dark glasses
and snowy beard. "Smart as a whip, she's gonna be somebody."
I think how lucky I am to have this day, this great summer, to be Grandpa's
girl — to have potential, although I'm not sure what potential is. All I
know is it feels good when Grandpa says it.
Grandpa's girl.
I pull the door to the house shut, not bothering to lock it. This isn't the
city. I turn slowly and take another look around the yard, beyond the now
empty and corroded bait tanks to the few sparse acres of Grandpa's farm.
There's much to be done if we're to bring it back.
My husband smiles from the front seat of the dusty Chevrolet parked on the
gravel-topped driveway. In the back seat, our daughter clutches her worn
Cabbage Patch doll and presses her nose against the glass. She looks a lot
like I did then, on that August day so many memories ago. So many summers.
I reluctantly slip on my shoes and take the first of three concrete steps
down. Butterflies flit in and out of newly cleared beds of roses and nodding
day lilies. The gnarled walnut tree stands near the gate, surrogate
patriarch to all Grandpa cherished. His legacy to me — and now to my child.
Vines of purple four o'clocks, their blooms partially closed, climb the
stone-lined path to the sloping porch as if to beckon.
I embrace a familiar ache in my heart. When I take hold of the wooden rail,
I know it will still be loose. I think we'll leave it that way — some things
should never change.
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