That Summer

“Warm out today.” Grandpa likes to state the obvious like that. Growing up I’ve heard him say that it “sure is raining” when we’re in the middle of a torrential downpour and that it’s “a mite chilly” after we’ve gotten a foot of snow. He rocks back and forth in his chair on the porch and I wonder if I’m getting too old to spend my summers out here. I’m seventeen now, I mean this is pretty lame. I could be going to concerts, not out in the middle of nowheresville Texas.

“Yeah Grandpa, it’s called the sun.” Plenty of it came through, even though the property was in a lightly wooded area. I think I might take a dip in the creek later.

“Reminds me of something that happened back in ’67.”

I pause. I don’t know what warm air has to do with something that happened decades ago, but there’s something on his mind and even though I feel too old for fairy tales, I guess I should humor him. I sit, suppressing a sigh, and a little bit of light glows in his eyes.

“Yessir, I was a young man then. This was back in the late summer of ’67; quite a year that was. All sorts of riots going on, the King of Rock got married over in Las Vegas and we had the first ever Superbowl. Now that was a game. That was back when people knew how to play, I tell you what.”

Grandpa goes on and again, oh my god, what does this have to do with anything?

“Anyways. I was out in my grandpappy’s field pulling weeds when I heard something coming from the hedges. Sounded like someone grumbling, so of course I went and stuck my head in to see what all the fuss was about.”

He leans forward in his chair, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

“It was an armadillo, snuffling around, munching on one of our turnips.” Grandpa nods matter of fact and leans back. “Go on, git you little veggie thief; that’s what I said as I tried to shoo it away.” Grandpa laughed. “Well wouldn’t you know it, but the durn thing went and said something back.”

I raise an eyebrow. I wonder if grandpa’s finally crackin. They say your mind goes when you reach a certain age. But I was raised to be polite. I’m gonna let him finish.

““You can talk?” Grandpa went on, remembering this decades old conversation. “But—you’re an armadillo. And you know what that thing said to me? Don’t mean I can’t talk. Plenty of us animals do. Y’all just don’t get around to listening is all.” Grandpa leans forward in his chair and makes a low harrumph. “Now there was a feller with attitude.”

He keeps going and I start to zone out; there’s only so much I can take about talking animals in a single sitting. This isn’t the first time he’s talked nonsense, but I’m definitely old enough to not take it seriously anymore.

“—ir, this summer feels just like the one back in ’67. Well, I been holdin’ you up long enough. You be careful out there on the property now.”

Huh? Oh, yeah. I must have missed a couple things he said. I give him a big grin.

“You betcha, Grandpa.” Okay, I’m free. Time to head down to the creek, that’s what I was going to do before I got sidetracked. I think I’ve been walking for maybe ten minutes when I hear someone.

Sounds like some muttering about carrots.

Strangest thing though, it sounds like it’s coming from one of the hedges.

Must be imagining things.