Sunday soundcheck*

Sunday morning in Memphis. Old School Freight Train is on the iTunes, water is on the stove boiling for coffee, and biscuits are waiting to be put in the oven. Yes, they’re frozen but they deserve respect because they will be delicious. The AC is earning its keep up above me. It’s a trip having your own central air. You Midtown people know what I’m talking about, I’m sure. That quiet chilly breath on your shoulder takes getting used to when summer has traditionally meant periodic trips to sit in front of the window unit, which is obviously located in the most inconvenient place in your living quarters, to let the sweat dry.

“Summer.” I said “summer.” It’s not summer yet. What’s my rush? I’ve got a few more delicious days of spring left. I want to let them sit like watermelon chunks in the bottom of my sangria, sopping up the goodness of the day. Then I’ll spear them with a straw and savor them and hopefully they will be worth remembering next summer, and the next, and the next.

I won’t say anything
I won’t say anything
spring really wasn’t all that bad
dandelions and wasting time and waiting for the morning light

This morning I’ll be drinking my coffee out of a yellow cup. I chose it specially for today. It seems like a yellow cup kind of day to me. My favorite color when I was a kid was yellow. I can’t remember if that was always so, or if I just told everyone it was yellow since my room was already painted yellow, with yellow pull-down shades over the windows. I guess it doesn’t matter now. I grew up and now I live in a house with bright yellow walls and it feels like it was meant to be that way.

River’s warm so come on in and take a swim
it’s all right
I won’t say anything

I’m up early thanks to my organic alarm clock: The cats. They do not care what time I went to bed the night morning before. They will conduct a symphony of need and boredom at 8 a.m. if I am still in bed. That hour of the day, when I’ve been in bed for four or five hours, is when I am at my most petulant. I have been known to scream and holler and throw shoes like an Iraqi journalist. Today I got off a couple of rounds of “KITTY, HUSH” before I realized I might as well join the living. As soon as I get breakfast behind me, then a shower, I’m driving in to Decatur County to spend some time on the river at my aunt and uncle’s cabin. It’s my grandmother’s birthday. She fell and broke her shoulder a few weeks ago, then fell again and hurt her knee, which she broke more than a decade ago. It’s been rough on her body, rougher on her mind. Grandmaw is tough as nails and unaccustomed to having to take orders from her brittle bones. We’re going to grill out and sit around and tell stories and gossip and hopefully avoid politics. Or at least I will have the good sense, as I have learned is prudent, to clam up when the topic arises. Instead, I am going to point my camera at the people I love and steal little bits of their souls as the sun sets.

* This post is an homage to the style of one of my favorite local blogs, the Soundcheck and the Fury.