Summertime in Georgia,
summertime in Georgia.
The dry flies underlay a scratching rhythm to the sweet melodies of the mourning doves or “rain crow” as my Paw called them. Nights steam mosquitoes from the ground like the dusty plagues of Egypt. Days themselves seem to melt like wax before the power of the sun.
“The Choke” of summer usually descends in late April or May if we’re lucky and runs straight through September, sometimes bounding into October with only the briefest interludes of less than 90/90 – that’s 90 degrees and 90% humidity. That heat takes on an almost physical being, angry and oppressing, seeking whom it may devour.
Often when “The Choke” reaches a fevered pitch where the Georgia clay itself cries for relief, the God who sends rain on the just and the unjust will gather up great billows of darkness and pour out His wrath and mercy in one great gift of rain and wind and terror and joy.
One of the hottest nights I can remember was marked by such a storm. We had sweat on the front porch with glasses of sweet tea and fresh goat’s milk, watching lightning walk its spider fingers across the crusted land, inching closer. Finally the rain would begin on the other side of the hay pasture and run right over terrace after terrace, then the farmhouse, the barn and spill into the woods beyond.
Shut up the windows!
Off with the attic fan!
Let the deep south and all her people rejoice at the cooling rain.
Late that night, I half-awoke, dripping with sweat and longing for a cooling touch like the rich man craving a drop from Lazarus finger. I lay in the dark stillness trying to fall back asleep in the oven of my bedroom.
A breath.
The slightest hint of breeze was so refreshing that I didn’t bother to question its origin. I just wished it would come back. It did.
I rallied my sleepy senses enough to remember that all windows were closed and the fan was off from the evening’s storm. That breeze, again!
My eyes widened and I lay in “The Choke” absolutely frozen. Holding my breath, I could hear the whisper of that moving air as something flashed over my face. I pulled the sheet over my head and contemplated whether my short life would end in death by suffocation or death by whatever was in my bedroom.
The fluttering of leathery wings gave away the intruders identity.
“Jeremy!” I yellspered for my brother. “Jeremy!!” louder.
“Hey! There’s a bat!! There’s a bat!” yellsperring became a thing of the past as desperation took its place.
My dad, the firefighter, was at work, so I alerted the rest of the house and mainly my brothers to the rodent’s invasion.
Lights on!
Sheets thrown back!
Every member of our house grabbed weapons of choice to defend and protect against the warring interloper. Tennis rackets and pillow cases flew into people while the attacking bat screeched laughter at our feeble attempts at eviction. It was finally a baseball mitt that made the play and snuggly caught the little critter. I don’t remember if he was allowed to go free or not.