That summer feeling’s gonna haunt you the rest of your life.
– Jonathan Richman
When I lived in Knoxville,Tennessee, I belonged to a strange cult – the cult of James Agee. Agee was a Pulitzer Prize winner, a critically
acclaimed writer, a hard drinker, and as far as I can tell from mentioning him outside of
Tennessee, somewhat obscure. But for me, for a spell,
Agee was a bit of a god. And every summer, a hint of him wafts back into my
life, same way the smell of the ocean does even though the ocean’s so far away.
He recurs, in my memory, as the author of “Knoxville: Summer, 1915.” It is a
glorious and brief
essay, the preface to his novel A Death In The
Family.
That summer, as Agee describes it from the perspective of a five-year-old,
was
full of fathers wielding garden hoses that gave forth music like symphony
instruments. Mothers, their aprons damp from washing dishes, finally coming out
to join the rest of the family on the lawn. Children running through the
streets in the day’s last light. “Also there is never one locust but an
illusion of at least a thousand.” My favorite part though, the phrase I never
forget, is the one about quilts, spread out and waiting. Sooner or later,
everyone lies down, looks at the stars, listens to the deep breathing, until
the narrator is carried in and put to bed.
I love this for more than its poetry. I love this because it is the ideal
summer night, no matter where you are. In my version – Austin, 1995 – I’ve scanned the paper for band listings, made mental notes which to see,
contemplated calling friends I’ve neglected and offer to meet up and buy them a
beer. Then I cast aside these thoughts. I head out to my tiny garden with my
not-so-tiny-anymore baby, Henry.
The mosquitoes won’t let us play long, but we’ll take what time we can get.
Hopefully, it will be a Tuesday, and we’ll hear Don Walser, the yodeling angel,
his voice drifting over the fence from Jovita’s, a seeded dandelion’s blow
away. Henry will get the hose and, feigning to tend the tomatoes and marigolds,
soak us both. Crickets take the place of locusts and dodge-the-fire-ant-hill is
our twisted version of tag.
The morning glories sag wearily, not even remotely amused by the moonflowers,
climbing up the same trellis, bursting open for the one night of glory each
bloom is alloted. We stop and smell these short-lived miracles, Henry
proclaiming them beautiful, delicious. Then we break off a piece of aloe, and
rub it on all those spots that doorbell lady product – skin so stinky – did not manage to protect.
I carry him inside, too heavy in my arms. Then up to his room, Don still
singing, my lullaby no competition, and watch his freshly freckled nose
unwrinkle as he falls into the safest sleep.
Back downstairs, I step back out to the garden. I sit in the old metal rocker
– the one I really will strip and paint this summer (pastel, like the
neighbors’). If it is very hot (and it usually is), I’ll crack a Shiner and let
it sweat in my hand and run down my throat, tasting like a far different drink
than it does in the winter. I’ll look at the moontower over on South First
Street and then turn back to the tomatoes. In the morning they’ll be sweet and
red and we’ll share one for breakfast.
This article appears in May 19 • 1995 and May 19 • 1995 (Cover).