August in the Promise Land

“…hotter ‘n the hinges of Hell!” my Daddy said during extremely hot summer days. I often wondered how hot the hinges of Hell really were -- but if Hell was like the Promise Land in August, maybe it wasn’t such a bad place.

On those sultry August summer mornings many of the children’s activities in the Promise Land took place on front porches. We read, played games, had grand tea parties with Pepsi-Cola and cheese nabs. The south wind from Bogue Sound, as it carved the Yaupon tree, lured us to the porch swing. The humming florescence beetles in the hedges set the tempo into the motionless air as we dozed. The sound, a dead slick cam, did not even allow the changing of tides.

On sunny afternoons our parents allowed us to play at the landing. The cool, shaded white sand under the net spreads called to little girls, a perfect environment for let’s pretend games. The boys did their best to replicate the swimming technique of the USN Frog Men by swimming under skiffs. I always feared getting stuck under the boat and never attempted such a daring feat. Waves splashing into our faces offered relief from the scorching sun. We submerged into a world of swirling blue and green, swimming in slow motion. The muffled laughter above seemed like we were in a distant magical sphere.

After rinsing off at the back yard spigot we returned to the porch and enjoyed our favorite treat of the summer, Miss Maybell’s frozen drinks in a Dixie paper cup. Slurping and licking our frozen delight we enjoyed the use of a free hair dryer, the south breeze, and the afternoon sun! Our playing at the landing sapped our energy, but we sensed a feeling of security and safety in the warmth of sun rays.

This time of day we usually heard our mothers in the kitchen working up biscuits for supper. And then that familiar welcoming call, “Come home...it’s supper time.” Home! Home to where love awaited. The memory of this clarion call would sustain us throughout the years in our faith and challenges.

After supper when the day began to fade into shadows, we loved our game of hide and seek. Sometimes we played spin the bottle in Guy’s chicken coop. We’d spin the bottle, turn out the light for the kiss, then turn the light on again for the next spin. When darkness invaded our games and the streetlights came on, we obeyed our signal to return home. Maybe treats of ice cream or watermelon waited for us to enjoy on the porch. We collected lighting bugs in a mason jar and marveled at the soft light illumining our faces.

The porch swing began its nightly slow rhythm and soon the locus offered their own tempo to a Promise Land evening. The lights across the sound reminded us of diamond wedding rings. Now and then a squawking bird arose from the landing, it reminded us it's getting close to our bedtime. The mockingbirds finished their songs for the day and our eyelids drooped as the night settled in. Soon, we were adrift with glittering stars in the evening sky.

As August sauntered through our lives we lived each day, barefooted with sun burned freckles, contented with the gifts of summer. But too soon the sun slanted in a different direction as it traveled its ancient orb again around the earth, turning carefree days into melancholy ones. When the north wind sang in the night, bringing music from the sea, we knew school days were ahead.

Next August I will ask, “How hot are the hinges of hell, Daddy?”

For my Promise Land playmates, Guylene and Ben Allen -- I will never forget our magical August days together.

Summer’s reign was over, leaving behind memories of billowing August clouds, the jab of a sandspur, the salty taste of Bogue Sound on our lips, and dreams of a gentle nightly south wind wafting curtains across our pillows. Seagulls, left to long for children’s laughter along the shore find only silence and small footprints on the cool golden sand that disappear in the wind and waves. The Yaupon, pointing to the north grows tiny green berries on its waiting branches.