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.

The Northern Cardinal is singing a melody. Calm is the order of the evening. Moving forward to fall. A new black sweater for the occasion. Light to wear with cool weather before the cold. What shall we do and when shall we do it? There will be Holiday Shows to see. Reflections on the meaning of life while living it. The trees are golden as the sun sets.

A hidden world comes to life after the Sun goes down. Night people, night workers, night activities.  I spent much of my career working at night. Most custodial work is night work. No muss, no fuss, quiet work. Work that can be done while waiting and watching. Low-stress people bring stress with them. Fewer people, less stress. The cool contemplation of walking after dark is enjoyable. As winter follows fall, it becomes cold contemplation. Night workers do not encounter the elite of the land often. They are home asleep. Night workers do their work in their night community and follow their own doctrine.  Turn all the lights on to ensure no secrets are lurking. Heat a cold cup of coffee in the microwave. Wonder who the occupants of the offices are. Are they nice or not? Are academic folks really as smart as you have heard? Do you look as strange as some eating breakfast at 3:00 A. M:?

There is a different, separate culture at night. We have our own drummer. Our clocks are not your clocks. Our ways are not your ways. We understand the beauty of the night. The Phantom of the Opera has nothing on us.

Night is good for us introverts. We pick our social interactions. We have time to recharge our batteries. The push-pull of the day yields to the music of the night. Coffee is essential. As important as safety shoes and a hard hat. Mr. Sleep must not take over.

We Building Service folk knew our mission. We loved the University students. Fall Semester was exciting. We worked all summer to prepare for our student family to return. The terrazzo floor gleamed.  Many of our staff had degrees. They enjoyed the night, the calm, the purpose of being trusted to perform and produce an excellent product. We understood our mission was the recruitment and retention of our precious students. We never failed.

We are fortunate daughters and sons. John Fogerty sang, I ain’t no fortunate son.’ Just now I passed a house that exploded a couple of days ago. A person was killed, and kindling was left. Police tape for a wide circle. Devastation. We drop a lot of bombs on others. It is different when you see it up close. War is not something to play rock and roll music to. War is hell!

White Heron is back. He knows school is starting and needs to get his supplies. White Heron is a Brooks Pond enthusiast. He knows not of war; he understands fish. Fireworks make him nervous. The first Friday in August. The Custodians have prepared the floors. All is shining. They look like mirrors. You can comb your hair in their reflection. It is a good Friday for a trip to Ponds Hollow. Monday will be the hot classroom. Window fans are moving hot air. The teacher has a smile maskoon that she purchased for Halloween. She was not ready for school. The teacher went on a Caribbean cruise and wanted to stay on an island. Mr. B quit his gas pumping job today. He needed the money in the summer. No one gets rich teaching kids.

The usual cliques formed again as if summer had not happened. Bullies were there, a bit subdued, until the teacher tested the waters. Chet had on his ballcap. Mrs K told him to take off his hat in the house, a universal theme in the early 60s.  Debbie’s uncle was in Vietnam as well as Bill B’s cousin.

Chet watched the body count on the CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite each evening as he ate Oscar Mayer Weiners. Morley Safer and Ed Bradley crouched low as gunfire sang over their heads in the rice paddy. A little Vietnamese girl ran down the road naked, burned by Agent Orange.  It was an award-winning photo. Children wept alongside their mothers as their thatch roofs were set ablaze. General Westmorland said all we needed was more troops to be the victors in Vietnam. President Johnson sent more and more and more. Victory was just around the corner. Communism had to be defeated no matter how many lives were lost. A just cause, we were told nightly. Walter Cronkite said the war was unwinnable.

‘New Boss same as the Old Boss,’ the poor man said. ‘The poor fight and die; the rich get the glory for something that they caused,’ the poor man proclaimed. ‘Iran says they may agree to open the Strait of Hormuz if we agree to their terms. ThetStrait was open until we started bombing; no regime change, no magical thinking,’ the Poor Man observed.

The Fog of War blinds many eyes. The children cry. Good people die. We trusted a lie.

‘I love swimming,’ Billy B said. ‘I could swim every day and twice on Sunday,’ Billy B danced. ‘School starts Monday, but next week will be easy; teachers will have workshops, and we will get out early,’ Billy B splashed. ‘Watch me as I float in the deep water,’ Billy B winked. ‘I sure hope we do not have to go to Vietnam, as it is a fight without purpose,’ Billy B said. ‘It is a big ask to require a person to lay down their life for a President’s ego,’ Billy B noted.

The Golden Days are coming. Days of wine and roses. Peak performance is no longer necessary. Deadlines are blurred. Erasers are used. A time of spiced apples. Woodsmoke in the air. Mylo playing with Flat Santa. Songs of winter wonderings. Time to look and truly see. See with your heart. Hear with your soul. Live in the temporal and understand the spiritual. Where did I go? I made a little sailboat out of paper, put on a paper hat, and sailed away into the sunset. The water was calm before it was choppy. Do not worry, mates, I have the wheel. The wheel was bigger than me. It was hard to turn. It took two men and a little boy. I was the little boy.

Evening thoughts,’ the Old Man said as he laughed. ‘Home is in your heart,’ the Old Man noted. ‘The greatest adventures lay dead ahead,’ the Old Man explained. ‘We live in the land of whisperings and wanderings,’ the Old Man continued. We look for answers to life’s persistent questions from those who do not have our interest at heart,’ the Old Man mused. ‘Those who would treat us not as they want to be treated,’ the Old Man smiled. ‘Vagabonds and louts, crooks and criminals, wolves in sheep’s clothing,’ the Old Man proclaimed. ‘Having eyes they do not see and ears that do not hear, hearts that are wicked with the imprudence of power from the emperor,’ the Old Man assured with caution. ‘They cluck and cluck as the ax comes down on the poor of the land, neither caring nor seeing anything but their own reflection,’ the Old Man whispered.

‘It is good to be the king,’ the ruler said. ‘Whatever idea enters my head is golden and shall become the law of the land,’ K said. ‘I have many ideas, often throughout the night,’ K said on his Truth Machine. ‘I am capable of anything, and the people know it. I can and do cut off heads at my whim and pleasure,’ K said.

It is good to write in the cool of the evening. The fishing vessels are coming to shore. The catch has been good. The Preacher was aboard. ‘Cast your nets on the other side,’ the Preacher said. ‘Let us eat and drink, talk of the future and the adventures we soon will face,’ the Preacher said.