Marsha Tennant
contributing writer
Dawg Days oF SUMMER
August is the “dawg” days of summer in the South. In the heavy air to wear of my childhood,
I taste and feel the comfort of sultry Sunday afternoons. Without fail, we would go to my
paternal grandparents’ house after church. The menu was constant; fried chicken, mashed
potatoes, green beans, biscuits and homemade pie. The aromas and sounds would drift out to our car as
my brother and I scrambled to freedom. An hour in church had been a challenge for two active siblings.
After dinner, we grabbed aluminum lawn chairs and head outside. Summer in Tidewater, Virginia,
was hot. My grandmother carried a small white cloth in her house dress pocket to wipe away the sweat
dripping from her forehead. My grandfather just grabbed a paper towel on his way out the door. Even
the yard dog, Pat, crawled under the grapevines. Daddy had shed his coat and tie before we ate. He
rolled up his shirt sleeves to allow as much ventilation as possible. Mother removed her hat and gloves,
but still wore the constricting nylons. It was Sunday, so certain customs were not ignored. My brother
and I were allowed to run barefooted in the yard. Outside was just slightly cooler than inside, but it
was freedom for everyone. One of the adults would always remark, “The dawg days are here now!”
Sunday was the time to sit with family and catch up. The first line of business was to check the
church bulletin for births, baptisms and who had “expired.” Church bulletins were the first social media
messengers. Being included in the bulletin carried a certain status - no matter the reason. The adults
would also throw in a few tidbits of gossip they had heard on the way out of church. I loved to listen to
this banter of conversation. It made me feel like I was a grown-up, too. Time almost stood still on these
afternoons. In the 1950s, Sunday was sacred. It was a day of rest and relaxation. Department stores,
gas stations and grocery stores were all closed. Everyone knew they had to get their business done on
Saturday. If we didn’t have something, we did without. Children were not allowed to play card games,
and there was no washing or ironing. Occasionally, Daddy would wash the car.
For Mother and Grandmother, it was a few short hours of freedom from chores and household
responsibilities. They seemed happier and lighter outside. Aprons were hung behind the kitchen door
and yard shoes slipped on for a walk around the garden. I trailed behind these two women, soaking in
their chatter. From a distance, it appeared that they were observing the plants; in reality, they were hav-
ing girl talk. They supported one another with sighs, head shakes and soft throaty sounds. My brother
sat with Daddy and Grandfather as long as he could. His goal on these afternoons was to make my life as
miserable as possible. The heat only accelerated his cause. He loved to capture Japanese beetles and
fling them at me. Yelling “Snake!” was a sure way to watch me scream and run behind the tool shed.
At some point, boredom set in and we became ONE. There was just so much of being good that
we could tolerate. Time to aggravate the adults - test the limits. We volunteered to water the plants,
with the goal of making sure some of the water hit the familial circle (always with success and conse-
quences). So worth it! Sadly for me, Sunday has become an ordinary day. Over the years, I have been
an eager and active participant. I race through my days just like everyone else. There is no stop sign
that reminds me that it is SUNDAY. Summer is the perfect time to slow down and attempt to recapture
the magic of a day of rest. It isn’t easy with all the distractions bombarding us, but I can slow myself
down. I am not grocery shopping or washing clothes on Sunday. I am trying to pull myself away from
social media. Porch sitting, writing and reading are replacing old habits.
None of this is easy, and I do slip back into the old routine. What is crucial is that I am mindful of
the importance of reconnecting with myself, listening to the whispers. The whirl of the porch fan cools
my moist skin. Birds play in the birdbath with abandonment. I look out over my cottage garden and
see hosta and sweetshrub with roots that were first planted over 70 years ago. The urge to get up and
do something subsides, and I snuggle comfortably into the dawg days of this moment and summer.
84
AUGUST 2017
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