Dog Days

Dog Days came quietly calling Friday. They last 40 days and will end on August 11. For me, they mark the heart of summer in East Tennessee; long, lazy days of intense heat and violent thunderstorms. Seeing as I cannot see well today because of dilated pupils from my visit to the eye doc, and to celebrate and commemorate Dog Days, I will place one of my first stories here for your reading displeasure. It will soon be rewritten and resubmitted for republication.

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Yesterdays No More
A Tragedy

by
Ken Anderson

Thor walked the earth last evening, lighting his way with the fires of heaven. It was a violent, thundering downpour that sometimes attends a summer cold front.

Today is a good 10 degrees cooler than the previous few days. The sky is scrubbed clear of the lingering, sticky haze that attends the Dog Days doldrums. It is the first hint of the shortening autumn days that are just over the calendar horizon.

I am half sitting, or maybe half standing at the rail of the porch, taking in the final minutes of dusk. One bare foot is dangling, trying to keep time to the chirping of a cricket.

With Nature's subtleness, the few remaining fireflies slowly begin their lusty dance of light — a few at first — then arise the late sleepers to rescue the night from its own darkness. Glittering stars struggle with the lightning bugs to be the prime attraction of the weakening twilight.

A breeze, as gentle as the breath of a sleeping puppy, carries the fragrance of the evening honeysuckle over the railing, teasing my mind. A moment like this cries to be shared, but selfishly I draw it into my soul and savor it as my own.

Oh! My mind reels from an abrupt change in the tone of the evening as my senses are overcome with the gentle scent of the flowering mimosa trees that border the yard. The smell of lilacs flirted with my thoughts on a similar occasion earlier in the year, but the mimosa is tugging me, directing me to take notice, to remember.

Abruptly I am at the end of the porch nearest the trees and their soft pink blossoms. The compelling perfume fills my mind with recollections, memories of a time when the world was young and I was its Crown Prince.

- - - - -

We lay on our backs under the branches of the wide-spreading mimosa tree, its bark carrying our carved names. At times we talked and other times we daydreamed of how good it would be when we grew up.
'Hey Larry, let's play mumblety-peg.'
'Naw, I still got dirt in my teeth from last time.'
We would watch the little green inchworms that probably began their life cycle up high on the tree, descending toward the grass below on their invisible strands of silk. Landing on us, they would bow their backs and measure for the new clothes that some of us might soon wear for the start of the school year.
'Looks like you'll get a new shirt for school this year.'
'Yeah, maybe. If pap sells a hog I might get some stuff."
Always was present the beautiful smell of the mimosa flowers, blooms that looked like delicate white and pink shaving brushes.
It was good to take one of the flowers and ease into the house where I could sneak up behind my unsuspecting mother, reach around and tickle her under her nose.
'Get on back outside. Summer is waiting.'

- - - - -

My breath catches as I return from my musings, and I mull my way back to my perch at the rail, emotions adrift.

As the summers before me become noticeably fewer, I long for the return of those days of my childhood. Helplessness and self pity at becoming old cause a tear to slip down my face as I recall the good life I've had. The hurt of sorrow grips my breast and my throat tightens. I am awash in a hangover from melancholy; the intoxicating scent of yesterdays no more in my heart.

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Copyright© 2007 Ken Anderson. All rights reserved

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