“Sycamores and Sundays” The family house on Milltown Road was a safe haven from the outside world. The sycamores of the front yard stood watch over the family and the home. They provided a comforting shade in the summer, and a blanket of peace in the fall. Each and every spring was a fashion parade of the season’s newly born leaves. And, they were never more handsome than on country summer Sundays. The sunshine would pace the floor all night, in anticipation of the moment when it would burst in and awaken us on Sunday mornings. Pop and the sycamores were already one step ahead of the sunshine. The sycamores would stretch out their branches to allow the sunshine an unobstructed path to the windows, which was Pop’s cue to first, open the blinds, and then, fire up the stove for blueberry pancakes. Pop was a Sunday morning chef. He took his job seriously. At some point he would smack Mom on the ass to get her going. And, then, he would wait for the most unGodly moment, to finally open the doors to the childrens’ bedrooms and yell, “It’s Sunday morning! Breakfast!” A zombie apocalypse of four, comatose children would somehow make it down the steps, and begin preparing a picnic table in a backyard of grass that was greener than Ireland. We would all take our place, Pop would say grace, followed by a family “Amen”, and gradually, the youthful zombies would come to life, accompanied by the sound of the water of a swimming pool filter, which is kind of like coffee for the ears on a Sunday morning. The afternoons were devoted to Bobby Murcer, and Roy White, and Horace Clarke, and Celerino Sanchez. And then, “We interrupt this broadcast to bring you this special message from Pop. Turn off that T V and get some fresh air!” No problem. It’s Sunday. Turn on the radio and hit the backyard pool. You know, somewhere there’s a graveyard filled with the cut off legs from the dungarees that I had worn out back then. Cut offs really did make great bathing suits in the 1970’s. When you were done swimming, you didn’t even have to change. You wore them until they dried. Every Sunday dinner was barbecued chicken on Pop’s charcoal grill, and homemade potato salad, which was one of Mom’s specialties. Couldn’t go back into the pool until at least a half hour after the final bite was swallowed. Didn’t want to get a cramp in the 4-foot deep water. And, at about 6pm. I’d hop on my Stingray with the 5-foot sissy bar, and the sycamores would allow me passage to the outside world, where I would seek out the companionship of Bobby Ryan and Tommy Tischhauser. The three of us played out our version of “The Wonder Years”, and laid claim to the fields of Memorial School. Pop had one rule when I left the yard, “Be home by dark.” The problem was, I must have had early onset glaucoma, because, frequently, I had trouble distinguishing light from dark. Not to mention the fact that by the end of the summer, I felt like I was getting shortchanged by the daylight. But, I’d make it home, and the sycamores would whisper to me, each and every time, “Watch out. He’s pissed.” And the sycamores would stand guard once again.
Posted on: Mon, 21 Jul 2014 02:33:42 +0000
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