I sit down on the creaky hundred year old couch with careful calculation, clutching a white cotton handkerchief in hand and with great care, I lie down. This heat enervates me. Sometime in the late afternoon, I fall asleep on the old wicker couch; asleep despite the muggy blanket of heat and wet air which covers this area of New York State.
It is a lazy Sunday afternoon and I am full; having dined with family on seafood stuffed cod and cherries jubilee at the Glen Iris; observing from the cool inside of the restaurant, a wedding reception which is in full swing out on the side lawn. Despite soaring temperatures, the participants in the wedding party seem to hold up fairly well.
As I doze, I hear my father shuffle from room to room. He is not swayed by the heat and is dressed in long sleeves and long pants and dress shoes; the way I remember his father used to dress even on the hottest days of summer out in Aberdeen, South Dakota. I have never seen my father wear sandals or flip flops. I never saw my grandfather wear sandals or short pants.
Earlier at the restaurant, I watched my father walking carefully amongst the tables as he made his way past customers and wait staff; his left hand swinging at an odd angle and held behind his back; his steps slightly hitched on the right side as he leans over and moves with quiet purpose across the room. I have seen this before. It is precisely the way my grandmother walked, fifty years ago; down to the very last hitch and shuffle and leg swing. It may be my father has one leg shorter than the other but I do not know for certain.
I remember the heat from my grandparents’ home. Today’s same sun baked fifty years ago deeply through gray, wooden floor boards from the enclosed porch and up, right into the bottoms of my feet; the very same air I feel today, enveloped me then as we sat on white wicker chairs stuffed with pink, floral cushions mixed in with the smell of cigar and prairie wheat and old wood and grandma’s butter cinnamon sun buckles baking in the kitchen. My grandma lined the beautiful stained glass windows in the living room with tin foil so the intense sun reflected away from the inner house.
The clock chimes loudly and suddenly and it’s been quite some time since I lay down; I climb gingerly out of the arms of that old wicker couch and head to the kitchen for something cold to drink. My father is seated in the rocking chair in the other room, focused fiercely on something which has his attention from the news; remote control in his left hand, trigger finger always on the mute button, ready to strike. He remains oblivious to the heat.
After dinner, he dons flannel pajamas and totters off to bed, shuffling down the hall with his step slightly hitched on the right side as he leans over and moves with quiet purpose toward another room.
690 Saint Paul 