The
Flannels of August
The
granddaughter -
She
was 15, tall and thin, growing up too fast. It was a clear but cool
Maine morning in August. She picked out a black and white checkered
flannel shirt from the closet in the soldier room (named for the 50
year old wallpaper). It had belonged to her grandfather and was kept
in the closet all winter. It was damp from the basement below the
closet but not moldy. She sniffed the arm and tried to remember her
grandfather's smell. It had been too long and she couldn't smell him
but she tried to believe she could. Everyone else in the old house
was still asleep so she quietly slipped out the back door, closing it
gently so it wouldn't slam. She was barefoot and the grass was wet
and heavy with dew. Some bird on the bay made a strange lonely,
singular cry. That's a Loon, she thought. Her grandfather and her
father had told her that years ago.
The
daughter -
The
small, black and white checkered flannel shirt was too thick and too
warm for August but she always wore it in the garden because that was
where her father wore it when he was alive and still able to work
outside. She remembered the years when he seemed possessed by the
garden and the yard, working late into the evening until her mother
called him in for dinner. Whacking the weeds to keep them back, out
of the yard, cutting and hacking everything as if to gain some
control and restore order. She saw the signs of dementia early but
it took 10 years to take him completely. She fought along side him
for all those years but they both lost. Now, she had his flannel
shirt and it still smelled like him, she believed.
The
son -
As
soon as the August sun reddened the sky over Islesboro, he would open
his eyes, with some effort as he was still tired and a little rough
after last nights late dinner and drinks by the fire pit, roasting
marshmallows for the kids and drinking another ice cold beer. The
sun warmed his face, the best alarm clock on the Maine coast. He
got up and walked to the closet for a shirt. His sister had stocked
up on warm flannel shirts at the Goodwill in Rockland and kept them
in the closet in the Yellow House for summer family and guests. He
picked out a faded brown and purple one, soft as a chamois, and put
it on as he walked to the kitchen. After he made coffee, he grabbed
his rod and headed for the dock. The tide was wrong but it didn't
matter. He might still catch and release a few mackerel before
breakfast.
Big
Red: the grandfather, father, and devoted husband to Martha -
He
was cold again. August in Maine should be warm but to him it was
always cold, everywhere. He was wearing his long johns and opened
his eyes but only saw the ceiling. White, empty. He reached out his
left hand as he did every morning for the past 60 years to find
Martha She was there. Asleep and snoring gently even though the
rising sun was bright on her face. He got up slowly, put his feet on
the cold, hard, wooden floor and shivered. The rug was not there so
he walked to the dresser and got out a pair of socks. The closet
door was open but there was no light and he did not want to turn one
on so he reached in and felt around for a shirt. A warm shirt, like
flannel, but a thick one to keep him warm. He found one, slipped it
on over bony shoulders, walked slowly to the bathroom, closed the
door, pulled down on the string to light the room and looked at the
shirt as if he had never seen it before. Black and white checked,
thick flannel and warm. He put it on and walked into the living room
and sat on the old, red couch, scratching the left arm of the couch
as he waited for Martha to get up and fix his breakfast.
Tom
Crowley
August
11, 2016 & August 13, 2019
Lincolnville
Beach, Maine
