The Flannels of August

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