The hottest day of the year. It only seemed a little hotter than the day before. The Texas Workmen who installed doors on the writing porch a few years ago said our humidity was like none they had encountered. I heard it is hot in Texas.

Talent is all around us. Much of it is unrealized. I thought that this morning when I listened to several folks from Presbyterian Churches speak. Kind, concerned people. I could feel their sincerity over the Zoom Meeting. We introverts do not speak up often. We are bound by our preferred code of silence. When we do, it is a beautiful thing. Blogging is my preferred way to communicate what is on my mind. All those thoughts have to come up for air. It is a life-affirming exercise.

Still waters run deep, I have heard. A leader can not lead without empathy. If you can not feel what others are feeling there is no understanding. When the President says that our soldiers should have been deployed longer, as some our commiting suicide while others contemplate it is a lack of empathy.

Greatness is not contained in riches, power, or size; it is in the character of the nation’s leaders and people. It has been said, I do not care how much you know until I know how much you care about me.’ Christian/Nationalism was not Christ’s message. His message was to love the stranger in your midst, the widow, and the orphan. Looking the other way when passing the beggar on the street is the opposite of the gentle teachings of Jesus.

‘Neva J, I am so grateful for you inviting me to dinner in your home,’ Rosie said. ‘I usually eat a TV Dinner or a Pot Pie and watch television until the test pattern comes on,’ Rosie continued. ‘I do not talk much; there is no one to talk with,’ Rosie said. ‘I appreciate you taking me to the grocery store in your car; it is such a hot walk to the little grocery a few blocks from my house, and they do not have many items,’ Rosie explained. ‘People pass me and look the other way as I stop and rest a bit in the heat,’ Rosie noted. ‘Sitting here with you and your family makes me feel accepted and loved,’ Rosie cried.

The birds are singing, although it is the hottest day this year. They sing that it is all good when you are a bird on Brooks Pond. Through the fog of humidity, we can see September coming. The beginning of the BER Months. My favorite time of year. The curtain of darkness falls earlier each evening. Halloween with Jack O’ Lanterns and s’mores, hayrides and ghost stories will soon be here. The Monsters of my youth have become comforting when I witness the monsters re-emerging in some political leaders. Checks and balances are vital in a successful democracy. They are essential in a well-run church. They keep out the Banality of Evil. When evil looks like efficiency and common sense, forgetting those who need help, prepare for the worst. ‘I was just doing my job. I was a soldier; I was not a policymaker. I secretly opposed the Banality of Evil, but I had to obey,’ the Workmen of the Banality of Evil said. ‘Look away, nothing to see here, do you not hear the operatic music?’ the Footsoldiers said.

Well, the first week or three days of school are over. A perfect time to combine summer and fall. School was half a day; now a swimming adventure is the order of the day. The classroom was like a furnace with the box fans blowing hot air on the hapless students. Not much air conditioning in 1962.

‘We will forget summer is over; we can still swim until Labor Day and swim we will,’ Neva J proclaimed! ‘No teacher will stop us from our appointed destination,’ Neva J continued. ‘I will pack plenty of Merlot and Oscar Mayer Hot Dogs, the dogs kids love to eat,’ Neva J laughed. ‘We will pile into the 57 Chevy convertible and hope it does not rain,’ Neva J giggled. ‘You know, I bet the teachers were no more ready for school to begin than the kids,’ Neva J mused. ‘Where did the summer go?’ Neva J asked. ‘No study or homework today,’ Neva J shouted.

‘Look, there is Mr. S without his three-piece suit sunning himself on the beach,’ Jane said. ‘He looks blissful and at perfect peace,’ Jane continued. ‘He does not look as stern, more placid and human,’ Jane laughed.

‘Wolfman is putting on suntan oil. ‘Wolfey has been a regular at Pounds Hollow since he moved to Eldordo; he is quite the Casanova when the moon is full,’ Jane observed. ‘During the daytime he teaches Physical Education and Driver’s Education, but in the night he howls,’ Jane laughed.

So these are the days of wonder and mystery,’ Chet observed. ‘We can do anything we set our minds to,’ Chet noted. ‘Frankenstein is going to join us for Oscar Mayer wieners,’ he loved them and Merlot, Chet winked. ‘Frank is attending classes with us this fall, studying Psychology,’ Chet observed.

It is evening again. We quiet folk watch the sky. We watch the hills. We are following hope. It is an elusive partner. At times, there it is in its glory, while at other times it hides behind the clouds or in the shadows. Often hope can be found in the shadows. When life appears bleak, a bit of hope sticks its head out of the hidden place.

Hope walks with the Old Man in the cool of the evening. Mr. Mole and Mr. Badger join them. They speak of great ideas and plans. How to live a life of peace and hope. Forgetting the bad and focusing on the good. The Shadow Men are there. Standing along the side of the woods path. Waiting for a moment of influence, a time to concoct a conspiracy theory. They have the stones, the stumbling stones. Many racers for Hope have stumbled. The Shadow Men watch in the evening light. Hope smiles at the Shadow Men, and they nod in return greeting. Both have purpose and mission. Both perform on the stage of life, and we are thespians too.

‘Let’s keep moving,’ Mr. Mole said. ‘We must continue our journey home before the Shadow Men become bold,’ Mr. Mole continued. ‘Their purpose is to slow our progress and discourage us,’ Moley noted. ‘I have seen friends stop for years to talk with the Shadow Men, drink tea, eat cakes,’ Moley noted.

‘A Shadow Man told me to slow down and smell the roses, no need to worry about arriving home,’ Jane said. ‘He said, ‘Listen to my leaders and do what they say; soon I will have nothing to fear but fear itself,’ Jane laughed at the borrowed quote. ‘The Shadow Man said Hope is oversold and sought too much; it is a lofty concept that does not square with reality,’ Jane continued. ‘Shadow Man offered me a cup of tea and some shortbread cookies,’ Jane explained. ‘He said that the promise of Hope was realized in the President, the New Way of christianity Christian/Nationalism,’ Jane said with anger. ‘Trust and Obey; there is no other way. Do not think too much, as your heart will deceive you. Let the President do the thinking,’ Jane laughed.

Another Heat Dome. It may reach 100 degrees on Saturday. Unusual for our neck of the woods. It does not seem that hot. Uncomfortable is the word for the day. We, the people of the fall, are waiting and anticipating. We know what is coming. We understand who we are. We will not be deterred by a Heat Dome in August. Mylo is lying in the sun. He enjoys the radiant splendor for a short while. Then Mylo returns to air-conditioned comfort. He was born to it.

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In the halcyon days of the Old Man’s youth, there were no air conditioners in school. We were hot and sweaty. Sleep exhaustion from the hot classroom. The joys of summer beckoned from the open windows. It was last week we frolicked at Pounds Hollow and floated on our backs in the deep water. There were dreams of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Captain Nemo called out to us to trim the mainsail. We were the Captain of our ship; we were the master of our souls.’ There were sea monsters to vanquish. We traveled with Ulysses on the Odyssey. The Cyclops was an awesome sight. He spoke several languages and saw all with one eye. The Sirens were compelling; their song was hypnotizing. We thought about staying with them but did not. Off to school we must go, our parents said with unusually giddy faces. Neva J said each day of August How many more days to school with a rapturous grin. We had a few firecrackers left. We lit them. We had an unused snorkel; we used it. Tomorrow is Friday, and we will pay homage to summer lost at the Orpheum Theatre.

‘Look over there, it is Captain Nemo walking down the hall, Chet said with passion. ‘I passed the Cyclops this morning on the playground, and he bid me good morning, Chet said. ‘He was reading the Iliad and the Odyssey by Homer,’ Chet grinned. ‘Mr. Cyclops said that I had eluded him this summer but next summer would soon be here,’ Chet continued. ‘Mr. Cyclops offered me a job as his assistant sheep herder and a good straw bed in his cave,’ Chet noted. ‘Mr. Cyclops was a bit misunderstood as his visage and heft belied a good heart,’ Chet explained. ‘Yes, he ate a few of Ulysses’ soldiers, but they were but ants to him, Chet explained. ‘He loved the classics; he was an art aficionado,’ Chet proclaimed. ‘Mr. Cyclops loved his sheep; he had a massive library,’ Chet noted. ‘He was a good Cyclops, Chet observed.

Jane looked to her right, and Mr. Cyclops was sitting in a desk next to her. He smiled and spoke a familiar greeting used among friends. Mr. Cyclops sought the world of the kids. They had inspired him. Also he was told that he could easily be named to the basketball team.

The big event today was school buses. A lot of school buses. A heat factor of over 100 degrees and the start of school. The merging of seasons. Kids thinking I was free last week. The drummer’s tympanic beat changed. From the Caribbean sound of summer to the timpani of order and revelry. A rhythm that requires adjustment.

The Old Man hears Christmas music. It happens from time to time around Brooks Pond. The source of the music is unknown, Mr. Beaver told the Old Man. It is said that a little child lived near the Pond a long time ago, and he loved to listen to Christmas songs. Nicholas often would play Christmas hymns on the first day of school. The songs made Nicholas feel at home in a strange land. He loved The Little Drummer Boy. Nicholas had a snare drum that he played daily. He had the brushes that gave it a soft sound. Nicholas was playing his drum on his way to school when he saw a bad man. Nicholas beat his drum loudly with a staccato syncopation and frightened the bad man, who the Custodian jumped on, and the police took away. There is a statue of Nicholas at the school holding his drum and his Maltese dog at his side.

Another sunset earlier than yesterday. Heat popping like bacon frying in the skillet. Talk of things to come. Last-minute school supplies to get. Need colored pencils, drawing paper, and a tenor saxophone like Boots Randolph. Yakety Sax. The classroom is hot from early morning. Windows open and box fans are blowing hot air. The teacher is doing the same but must not tell her. Yes mam and no mam rule the day. The teacher seldom smiles; she is hot. Not hot like the kids say today; she is sweating.

The Late Show is a good cool respite. Joey Bishop and Regis Philbin are yucking it up. Guess they do not have to go to school. Johnny Carson and Ed McMahon live in glamorous Hollywood. ‘Swimming pool movie stars,’ the Beverly Hillbillies sang. Short school days this week; teachers’ workshops heat malaise. Equations are tough. What is wrong with arithmetic? Poor folks’ rich dreams. The Cooks have an in-ground swimming pool, we heard. Looked through a hole in the fence but could not see. A dog licked our eye.

The hallway is long. Mr. Watson buffs the floors until they gleam. He is a quiet man. The doors are propped open on each end of the hall to get airflow. The spirits of former students walk the shiny floors and say hi to Mr. Watson.

A movie is in order Friday night. Frankenstein will be on the silver screen. He will have thoughts on the return of school. Frankenstein is an introvert. He had a wife but could not feed her; she did not like the pumpkin shell. The Orpheum will be bustling with kids hot from school and ready for the cool theatre.

In a world of fewer keys, the Old Man had many. He wore them on his belt, hanging from an S-bracket made by a person in prison. The Old Man needed different keys throughout his work shift. The keys opened every door on campus. Not just the doors that people knew, but those that they did not. In his youth, the Old Man noticed that old guys enjoyed carrying keys in such a manner, along with oversized wallets that stuck halfway out of their back pants pockets and as many ink pens as would fit in their shirt pocket inside the plastic pocket protector. Never without an ink pen, never without a key. Well-groomed men wore Brylcreem or Vitalis in their hair, every hair in place for the day no matter how long.

The fascination with liminal spaces was not new to the Old Man. He had been working in liminal spaces for a career. Quiet spaces with no people or particular usage. Forgotten spaces. Spaces that appeared to have been important areas of academic excellence a long time ago. There were keys on his belt to access these mysterious spaces.

‘Greetings, my friend,’ the Professor said. ‘I don’t often see others on this side of the wall,’ the Professor noted with a wry smile. ‘I have been reading, and the time has gotten away from me,’ the Professor continued. ‘My wife was here with our kids, but she has been gone a while,’ the Professor explained. ‘She was taking them Christmas shopping, and they had their chosen gifts circled in the Sears Wishbook,’ the Professor chuckled. ‘ They are excited about our landing on the Moon and want toys that reflect that national accomplishment,’ the Professor said with pride. ‘Yes, just last month was a day that will go down in history: July 21,1969 we won the space race, let the Soviet Union put that in their pipe and smoke it,’ the Professor lay down his book and did a little dance.

‘How long have you been down here?’ the Old Man asked. ‘The Moon Landing was 57 years ago. This is August 10, 2026, ‘ the Old Man said with a perplexed look. ‘Hello…Hello…where did you go?’ the Old Man called out to the empty chair and the book on the floor.

Sunset comes quickly. It is there, brilliant in the sky; then it is not, a bit like we humans in our splendor, then our legacy. We burn bright for a moment like a comet. Then Darkness.

Night is a good time. It is half of our lives. I loved traveling at night when I was younger. Less traffic. Fewer people. Not as hot in the summer. With a thermos of coffee as your companion, you could go far. Steve, MJ, Faye, Aaron, Jonathon and I went to Tennessee on several occassions at night. Mini vacations. We arrived in the morning and had the day to spend having holiday fun. A little tired, a little sleepy. Tennessee had Cracker Barrel. There were no Cracker Barrels further north in those days. Cracker Barrel had Tom Clark Gnomes. We were fans of his art. The hills of East Tennessee were compelling. Gatlinburg was a regular treat for the Brooks. A lovely, peaceful town with a rich history. Cades Cove in the Smokies sparked my imagination. We have a miniature Cades Cove Village from those halcyon days.

We introverts often do our best thinking at night. We reflect on what we have seen, heard, and felt. Time coalesces at night. Past is much closer than in the light. We see our youthful exuberance and our older understanding side by side. Time travel is simpler at night. No distractions in memory and purpose. Kids sleeping in the backseat of the car. Easy Listening music on the radio. Concerns for the present and hope for the future. The Gatlinburg Vacation that almost was not, but by family unity was saved. Driving home on snow/ice covered roads.

Today is the day we make the night memories of tomorrow. What seems mundane, routine, regular order will take on significance as it is recalled in the future. Precious memories of the past were normal life when they occurred. Grandpa Earl never getting the correct order at a restaurant. Swimming in the Park Vista indoor pool where the water was like a bath. Jonathon jumping in the Paducah Executive Inn without his water wings and swimming underwater the length of the pool, only to exit saying, ” I forgot my water wings. Or Aaron with blue lips and shivering, assuring his Mom and me that the water was not cold at a hotel indoor swimming pool in Daytona Beach, Florida in January.

There is a good feeling in the air. School starts tomorrow. We had the Blessings of the Backpacks this morning at church. God bless our precious children. As I looked around this morning, I saw so many happy faces. Happiness is a tonic for the soul. A Balm of Gilead. A hospital for the sick. We used to sing, I will enter into his gates with thanksgiving in my heart; I will enter his courts with praise.’ A bit of thanksgiving is a good thing.

The spirit of God is refreshing. A cool drink in the desert. Our natural state is hopeless and helpless without God’s help. We need an Oasis.

‘I must not forget paste,’ Chet said. ‘Teacher will ask us to hold up our paste for Arts and Crafts,’ Chet continued. ‘This year I will paint like Peter Max,’ Chet noted. ‘I have images of his paintings and drawings on my backpack,’ Chet laughed for joy. ‘Peter Max sees the world through groovy glasses,’ Chet thought. ‘I will paint Frankenstein with Peter Max illustrations on his sheep’s coat,’ Chet concluded.

‘This year we kids are going to band together to stop bullying,’ Jane promised. ‘We are tired of bullying making kids frightened and bringing down the whole school,’ Jane continued. ‘There is no place for bullies in our school,’ Jane proclaimed!

‘The President is a Bully,’ Neva J said. ‘He is just like the Bullies in school; you have to stand up to him,’ Neva J continued. ‘He will noticeably shrink if stood up to,’ Neva J laughed.

It has always been a bit mysterious. Flying blindfolded. Tightrope walking without a net. Writing a mysterious journey. No one is more surprised than I am at the results. I thought I was going one path only to switch to another. I wanted to say one thing, but another came up. I write for myself and have a happy audience. When others tell me they enjoy something I have written, I am touched and humbled. I have wanted to write most of my life, and now that I have begun, I cannot quit. With no thought of being published, I hearken to what a famous writer said of himself: that if no one read his words, he is still a writer.

The story writes itself. Often true. A waking dream. Is it a muse? The soul seeking expression. Why does the bird sing and the bullfrog croak…because it is there.

‘MJ gave me a picture frame of the Little Train That Could,’ Billy B said. ‘This has been my motto,’ Billy B continued. ‘Not the first choice for the Team but often the last,’ Billy B mused. ‘Yet I was there watching and waiting,’ Billy B noted. ‘Enjoying the antics of the outgoing, reflecting on the results,’ Billy B commented. ‘Writing was a natural, peaceful pastime for me,’ Billy B explained. ‘The door to another universe was open, and I walked through,’ Billy B said with a smile. ‘My stories mirrored my observations, both good and bad, and the large grey area of life,’ Billy B laughed. ‘I saw a movie where a psychiatrist was treating a little boy who drew pencil sketches that came to pass,’ Billy B noted. ‘When the lad drew a picture and told the doctor that it was going to happen, it did. He was quite a peculiar little man,’ Billy B said.

‘I dreamed that I was a drawing on a page with captions underneath the figure saying what I was going to do next,’ Chet said with a funny grin. ‘In the dream Dad died…we found him dead the next morning,’ Chet said sorrowfully. ‘Are we actors on a stage while another writes our lines and lives?’ Chet asked. Is our existence love, loss, life, death all in the mind of the Writer?’ Chet queried.

Jane appeared as if she had always been a part of the conversation. She was nodding and smiling, but neither Billy B nor Chet recalled her being there. Suddenly they were speaking of the joys of summer vacation and how short it was. There was so much more they wanted to do, but time ran out. School begins on Monday. Jane bemoaned the fact that she had not been able to visit the shoe store, and she must have a new pair of shoes to begin the semester. Chet looked at Jane’s feet; she was wearing Ruby Red Slippers.