Listen to Jim’s blog:
http://redclaydiary.com/
or read his memories below:
THE SKYWARD HAND SIGNAL AND THE DANDELION MEMOIR
On this particular day of hotness and elevated humidity, the driver of the westbound automobile dares to do something different. Obviating the dry coolness issuing forth from her air conditioner, she grasps the plastic knob of the anodized door handle and cranks it counter-clockwise. The window descends, massive heat rolls in.
Then, the driver extends her left arm into the sunny morning, right-angles her elbow so that extended fingers point skyward, and prepares for the right turn she intends to execute a few feet ahead.
Just a few yards behind her rear bumper is the front bumper of my vehicle, and behind that bumper is driver number two—me.
I am awed by this small vision, a vision of someone out of the past navigating the modern streets of Birmingham as if the previous fifty years have evaporated. The car is old and iron-solid, blinkerless and weighted down by time.
The woman ahead of me is neatly coiffed and Sunday-school-tailored. She seems to exist in her own orderly time zone, reminding me of earlier days when all drivers were required to provide solid and accurate hand signals so that tailgaters would know well in advance that a slow turn is in the offing.
This time traveler ahead of me triggers other memories I will have to deal with in future red clay diary entries…just to settle them back into place in extensive and dusty files.
Memories of helping my mother hang soggy fresh-washed garments on our backyard clothesline. Flashbacks of incredibly sweaty afternoons penduluming a swing blade to control the advance of tall weeds. Learning how to avoid stripping gears while attempting to navigate a stick shift VW Beetle.
Watching my aunts carefully flatten and wash aluminum foil so that it can be re-used—Waste Not being the operative term. Saving canceled bank checks so that they can be employed as play money in imaginary games and used as notepaper for grocery lists. Wiping dry dinner plates one by one as they are hand washed.
The careful practice of slow-dialing a heavy black telephone after making sure the party line is not in use. Opening a massive dictionary and experiencing the texture and sound of turning pages, then moving fingers down columns to find how many definitions apply to each and every entry. Picking a delicate dandelion and slowly blowing its fluffy seeds into the childhood air.
The Sunday school hand-signal woman disappears to the right, my memories are interrupted by speeding hornblowers and orange construction cones, daytime redefines itself so that I am back to Now, the hustle emerges, the step-by-step responsibilities of life intrude and brush aside all but the next thing and the next thing after the next thing