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Monday, Mar. 13, 2006
I wish everyone could have had a weekend like mine.

Windows went a-flinging open on the edge of a Friday afternoon and made one glad that there was such a word as sultry, because sultry it surely was. The hanging sort of air that is humid warmth, that wafts in through window screens and makes house heaters a forgotten thing. You shut them off altogether and let the open window wash the room, listen to chirps and squawks and things unheard since fall.

I live in the South. Iíve lived here long enough that I speak as though I was born here, I move as one who has walked the red clay forever. I turn sawhorses out into the yard on Sundays such as these and do things with them, and watch my wife through the kitchen window, padding barefoot on linoleum and softly clanking dishes with hair tied back. My aged dog rests on green grass growing long, panting in short bursts, nosing a rubber ball.

There is sweetness to see every dogwood tree in full blossom. There is a sun that is suddenly hot to the face and pine needles underfoot. There are sandals suddenly dug from the back of closets, shorts from the bottom of drawers, and no end of things suddenly interesting to do out of doors. Cars sit abandoned, no need for travel when all that is warm and worthy can be found right here, and right now.

You tend to forget about the Sunday dinner when it is winter, the South is about Sunday dinner held on a porch or patio and shared with flying things and a grinning dog, with sweet tea and biscuits, and Ally made such a dinner last night. There is a small switch thrown when the weather warms for women in the South, cold china is exchanged for paper plates, the big frying pan is brought out and the crockpot put away.

I tidied up the last of my backyard puttering last night, there was chicken frying in that big pan and the smells drifted out to me like some sort of spell cast by the gods of spice, that sharp tang of goodness and the hint of dogwood all around. The slow rolling of a hot day into warm twilight with nothing pressing to worry over.

It made one glad that there is such a word as languid, for languid it surely was.

I wish everyone could have had a weekend like mine.

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