Colors of Summer

July 14, 2018


Driving to granddaughter’s house early yesterday morning, I saw a chicken, feathered all in black.  She was suavely stepping across the rain-refreshed St. Augustine of someone’s front yard.  In her company were several ebony ‘pullets’ ( is that what we call teenage chickens?) Mind you, we live in the city, so this was unexpected, and fairly exciting. But soon swept out of mind as I took up grandmother duties.  Now it’s circled back, attracted by my theme.  Black is a fine color indeed.


‘Black is black / I want my baby back!

Gray is gray / since she went away, oho,

What can I do? / For I-I-I-I-I, I’m feelin’ _______________’


To fill in the blank, see one of the best songs of the sixties:


Were you able to fill in the blank?  Back to the task at hand: My darling had her six-month shots the afternoon before.  So I was braced for post-shot misery.  To my relief she was in a pleasant, thoughtful mood.  After we removed her sleeping outfit we discussed what her morning costume might be.  She told me it was Casual Friday, and she’d just as soon be free of clothes.  That sounded good to me.  And so, the understatement of a snowy white diaper, pink baby skin, all crowned with auburn, and eyes–have I mentioned this before?– of azure, rimmed in darkest blue.  If one is young enough to carry it off, a good look.  Especially for mid-July on the Gulf Coast.


As to front porch time, she was riveted by a red-fronted robin, gray squirrel holding brown nut, occasional cars of various colors. She cannot seem to get enough of these things.  Ah but the best was coming!  We’ve seen a yellow cat before, making its rounds.  And it’s seen us.  This day it passed us on its way to our back yard, with nary a glance when we called it.  But on its way out,  it stopped. It stood at the end of the porch, regarding us with careful green eyes.  Then, oh so casually, it stepped onto the porch.  It meandered its way toward us, up to a pre-set line about six feet away.  Sniffed at a pot. Then turned and eased its regal sunshine back down the porch, across our front yard, across the street to the house which I believe to be its base of operations.





Author: Phoebe Dishman

Phoebe H. Dishman was born and raised in Beaumont, Texas. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother. An essayist and poet, she teaches adult Sunday school, compiles a monthly prayer calendar, edits the Big Thicket Association quarterly bulletin, and keeps a keen eye and ear open for birds.

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