Summertime
“In
summer, the song sings itself.”
William
Carlos Williams
The
temperature in Birmingham yesterday was 93F with 86% humidity. My old
truck, Fast Eddie, wouldn't start. He'd been sitting too long and the
battery was flat out dead. So I called my friend, Suzan, to come help
me jump it off. Understand that Fast Eddie is a 1989 Chevy Silverado
4 x 4, that belonged to my daddy—he's big and old and has had
everything in him rebuilt several times. He's a workhorse, and I'm
attached to him, not because he's beautiful, but because he keeps me
connected to my dad. Suzan and I had no success with the jumper
cables, so I called AAA, and waited around for them to come.
Once
the truck started, I was told to drive him for at least an hour to
get that battery back on line. So I drove around the neighborhood for
a while, and then up to Leeds to the Bama Flea and put things in my
booth. I left Fast Eddie running in the parking lot, knowing that
nobody in their right mind would steal him. Then I drove back to
Birmingham.
Fast
Eddie has no air conditioning. At the end of that hour of driving, I
was lobster red, and drenched. I stood in a cold shower for twenty
minutes and thought about the folks in California who couldn't do
that because of the water shortage. I paid condolences to the people
in Europe who are now sweltering in 100-degree heat with no air
conditioning. I had reverence for those who live in deserts and
tropical climates, who deal with heat everyday of the year. I prayed
for the construction guys and the road crews who work outside in this
heat. Later in the afternoon, the men who cut my grass showed up, and
I paid them extra for their work—hazardous duty pay. Who knew a
beat-up old truck could lead to such spiritual enlightenment and
generosity!
In
summer, the song that sings itself in Birmingham, AL is “Come on
Baby, Light My Fire.”
In
the Spirit,
Jane
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