In the Heat of the Night

[jasong]

"Over time, differences in temperature, pressure, and chemical potential equilibriate in an isolated physical system."- Second Law of Thermodynamics

I have a picture of my grandfather fixed irrevocably in my mind.

He is in his late sixties.

Potbellied, his skin leathery and studded with moles, he sits shirtless in a plastic chair on his front porch, basking in the Florida sun. A thatch of hair the color and consistency of steel wool springs lushly from his chest.

His eyes are closed. He looks serene and tranquil.

I am ten years old. I sprint across the lawn, the spiky shafts of Bermuda grass poking my bare feet, chasing tiny lizards as they dash for the safety of the bushes and the eaves of Grandpa's stucco bungalow.

Grandpa opens an eye and fixes me with a warning gaze. "Stay outta da bushes," he barks, his accent thick with the patois of his native Brooklyn.

I take his warning seriously.

As a young bantamweight, Grandpa won the Golden Gloves, known for his elusiveness and a thumping right cross.

Later, he worked for certain influential men, convincing his neighbors that it would be wise to make loan payments on time -vig included- and to cast their vote for favored candidates in local elections.

At sixty, retired from a patronage job with the post office and financially secure via years of parsimony and a generous pension, he abandoned the chilly mists of Sheepshead Bay for South Florida, the blue collar Promised Land of his generation.

As a child, I would visit him a few times a year during school vacations, my excursions filling me with a combination of excitement and dread.

Comfortably ensconced in his tidy house, hidden away in an enclave reserved for seniors over 55, Grandpa devoted his days to relaxation and the relentless pursuit of warmth and heat. Rising with the sun, he would inspect his lawn, stooping with a grunt to pick weeds or extract errant blades of grass, relishing the potent morning humidity.

Around eleven we would stroll over to the shuffleboard courts, where he was the undisputed champion- the high priest of the pucks. He would stuff his pipe with a scoop of Borkum Riff and watch his acolytes (guys from the same neighborhood up north, invariably named "Hy," or "Irving,") try to master the intricacies of the game.

Eventually, disgusted by their efforts- he derisively termed them "puck pushers"- he would rise from his seat and indulge in a game or two. Despite his portliness and his bad back, he moved with the fluid grace of the practiced athlete he was. He wielded his stick with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, effortlessly placing his discs exactly where he wanted them.

Having once again confirmed his status as the sultan of the sticks, he would resume his perch in the sunniest spot, relighting his pipe with a satisfied puff.

After a day on the courts, my grandfather and I would adjourn to the clubhouse, where he would visit the steam room and the sauna in succession. He insisted that I accompany him during this constitutional, pronouncing that otherwise, I might "catch myself a cold, or something woise."

I would writhe with discomfort in the torrid sauna, my face flushed and sweating, as my grandfather sat, serene as a bodhisattva, a beatific look on his face as he drank in the heat.

Finally, my grandfather would return to the porch of his abode, luxuriating in the rays of the late afternoon sun, watching me carefully on the lawn lest I damage his bushes, until my grandmother summoned us inside for dinner.

The house was like an oven in the sultry Florida evenings. As we sat in the glassed-in patio (known locally as the "Florida room,") eating the bland slop my grandmother would concoct in the galley kitchen- stuffed cabbage with tomato ketchup, fatty meatloaf with peas- I would beg my grandfather to turn on the air conditioning.

It was as if I had asked him to burn the shuffleboard courts to the ground. He would growl out a sermon on the ridiculous expense of air conditioning and the potential for all manner of disease inherent in its use, finally expressing his disappointment that I did not enjoy "da wondaful Floda wedah."

Fixing me with a baleful eye, he would shovel another forkful of cabbage into his mouth and chew menacingly, daring me to bring the subject up again.

Late one evening, after I spent hours tossing and turning in the guest bedroom, sweating under a scratchy blanket, I tiptoed through the house and surreptitiously flipped on the central air.

Likely it never been used. Outside, the compressor shrieked like a newly minted castrato. In the house, the ducting thumped and wheezed at impressive volume.

My grandfather came flying out of the bedroom, resplendent in striped pajamas and a pair of slippers, my grandmother trailing groggily in his wake. Immediately detecting my crime, he administered a backhanded slap that launched me onto the living room couch, then flicked off the air in a single motion.

"Nevah do DAT again!" he barked, as I blinked, dazed from atop the slip-covered chintz.

I never did.

My grandfather is in his late nineties now and I try to spend as much time as I can with him.

He still lives in his trim white cottage. The identical chintz sofa sits in the den, and the same scratchy blanket lies folded at the foot of the bed in the guestroom.

The air conditioner stands like a museum piece on a concrete pad next to the garage, still unused and in immaculate condition, a monument to Grandpa's abhorrence.

I'm careful to pace my visits. Grandpa is confined to a wheelchair, and he needs full time time nursing care at home. After a few hours together, he's exhausted, and I know it's time to go.

I rent a car and stay in a hotel when I go to see him, but I make sure I'm with him in the late afternoon. It's still his favorite time of the day.

Not long ago, on a warm summer evening, his nurse and I helped him out on the porch. His hands fumbled at his chest for a few moments.

I realized he wanted to take off his shirt.

The nurse gently helped him remove it. He sat back in his favorite plastic lounge chair with a contented sigh.

I sat next to him. We watched the evening sun set over the tile roof of the house across the road, the long rays filtering through the branches of the banyan trees, the green lawn dappled with purple shadows.

He turned to me and pointed, gesturing at me to take off my own shirt. I am over forty, a man of middle age, with a child of my own, but I obeyed him without question. Old habits die hard.

He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder, then turned his face back toward the west. I closed my eyes and did the same.

After a few moments, I felt my mind drifting, my body soothed by the warm caresses of the waning sun.

For a brief second, I was my ten year old self again- back on the front lawn, watching two old men lounging on the front porch, basking like reptiles in the amber light.

I felt my grandfather's hand on my shoulder again.

"Feels good, don't it?" he muttered, as the humid wind blew a soft susurrus through the trees.

"You're right, Grandpa," I whispered back to him. "It really does."

[Jahaliel]

Wow, this was lovely, such a wonderful vivid portrait of a man you obviously love and respect. I love the details to ir, made a really complete picture. Thanks for sharing it

[jasong]

Wow, this was lovely, such a wonderful vivid portrait of a man you obviously love and respect. I love the details to ir, made a really complete picture. Thanks for sharing it

Thanks very much for the kind words-

Jasong, sans bling, reinc.

[queenjellybean]

I really, really, really liked this. I was entranced with this from the beginning. This has such a great tone, great narrating, and excellent progression, with meaningful selective details. You brought both characters to life, from the dialogue to the witty similes sprinkled throughout this piece. I like how the ending was similar to the beginning/earlier parts of the story. Exceptional writing, I'm definitely bookmarking this.

[jasong]

I really, really, really liked this. I was entranced with this from the beginning. This has such a great tone, great narrating, and excellent progression, with meaningful selective details. You brought both characters to life, from the dialogue to the witty similes sprinkled throughout this piece. I like how the ending was similar to the beginning/earlier parts of the story. Exceptional writing, I'm definitely bookmarking this.

WOW, QJB, thanks for the kind words.

Jasong, sans bling, reincarnated.

[Jahaliel]

Such a pleasure to read this again :) And congrats on the Spotlight, it really deserves it. Awesome awesome story, very much enjoyed

[YoursTrulyZsa]

Now this is delightful.

Old habits die hard.

I like that part the best...what a wonderful story full of detail and warmth (pun intended). Some are so blessed to have grandparents...some of the best stories are derived with the multigenerational happenings! I have loved all of mine and 3 of 8 great grand parents. Thank you for pointing me towards this!

Zsa

[jasong]

Now this is delightful.

Old habits die hard.

I like that part the best...what a wonderful story full of detail and warmth (pun intended). Some are so blessed to have grandparents...some of the best stories are derived with the multigenerational happenings! I have loved all of mine and 3 of 8 great grand parents. Thank you for pointing me towards this!

Zsa

Zsa, thanks! And you might try this....
viewtopic.php?f=26&t=4209