The old mule swishes her tail and munches on sweet oats in her stall, for it is summertime in the deep South. The days go by slowly, like thick, warm molasses and the cotton stalks are thigh high. Flocks of Rhode Island Red chickens scratch in the front yard for their midday meal while a few courageous one’s venture into mama’s butterbean patch.
Heat rises from the corn fields but a slight summer breeze sneaks across the long front porch and the old flea-bitten hound raises up in a gesture of gratitude. The family will soon be coming home from the tobacco field and mama is getting supper ready. A big pot of butterbeans with a fist size of pork is simmering on the cook stove, while summer squash, okra and field peas are cooking nearby. Sliced tomatoes, onions and sweet peppers only add to the summer feast. For added pleasure, huge buttermilk biscuits and sweet blackberry pie is there for the taking with ice cold sweet tea to quench your thirst.
The streams and creeks are drying up. It is the dog days of summer, and it hasn’t rained for days, but the fishing is good for stump knockers and catfish. Young freckled faced boys are shirtless and barefoot as they head to the nearest fishing hole with a shirt cane pole slung over their thin shoulders, while holding a can of red wigglers in their hand. As they cross Mr. Johnson’s watermelon field, they stop, choose the biggest melon, toss it to the ground a mighty thud and fight for the biggest, broken piece. Warm, sweet juice in a vibrant red run down their mouths and into their bellies. It is like sweet ambrosia for the summer Gods.
Time is timeless. No one looks for a clock. It seems people and nature co-exist and are part of a greater collaboration which only God holds the key. Night finally comes. The red rooster and his flock have retired for the night, while the fireflies are coming out for the long night. The dog days of summer is in full force.
