Quote:
I hate summer. I hate the bugs, I hate the sun, I hate the juicy watermelon everyone laps up like thirsty puppies, I hate the carnivals that seem to pepper every single parking lot of every small and large market in town, I hate the firecrackers that fill the sky in their colorful blooms.
I.
hate.
summer.
Most of all though, I hate my grandma’s old broke down car that trudges down roads sputtering out curses,because that signals the beginning of a long, dreadful, boring, summer. The ride to my grandma’s house isn’t by any means pleasant. The dinosaur crawls past rotting trailer homes, their windows overflowing with trash, rusting cars in ditches, old farm machinery decomposing into red bones on the sides of roads and dirty kids who are too curious for their own good.To some this would be beautiful, a taste of what the southern country really is. To me, this is pure hell. Every summer since i was younger I’ve made the same pilgrimage to my grandma’s small house in the middle of the Mississippian countryside. My grandma is pleasant enough, a small hunched over old woman full of christian morals and old witchcraft she tries to pass off as the word of God. A woman whose hair is a ruffling uncharacterized swirl of curls and knots, sprouting out of her scalp like untamed rose bushes. A woman whose every other word is some kind of prayer or hymn or nursery rhyme.A very pleasant woman. She doesn’t talk much on the hour long trip from the bus stop to her house. The radio is blaring in the small car and she’s singing along in a slightly off tune version of her own making. Every now and then in a fit of sudden spirituality she thrusts both her hands into the air letting the car swerve uncontrolled through the streets then brings them both slamming down on the wheel exclaiming “Praise God! Amen!” and shaking her head excitedly. I lay my head on the door of the car and stare out at the emptiness we pass .
After an hour of listening to my grandma shout “Praise God!Amen!”, and watching the sun roll lazily across my skin, we arrive at our final destination. A small ,ugly, pastel green house surrounded by tall thick trees on all sides and a deep ditch dangerously close to the road and the makeshift driveway.She coaxed the car slowly past the ditch, which my side of the car leaned ominously towards the bottom of , threatening to send us into it at any moment. She parked the car on the side of the house, and shouted “praise God!”one last time before sauntering off up the cracking concrete steps and into the house. I stood for a moment next to the car, staring at the way the sunlight somehow found ways to get in through the thick canopy of trees overhead to touch the grass around the house. Then quickly went inside. The house was exactly like it always has been, horribly decorated with mix matching floral sofas, persian rugs, and angel statues that littered every nook and cranny. I roam the hallways the same way I do every summer. Running my hands over the familiar cracks and tears in the old,worn wallpaper. The house is a cozy two bedroom with a small kitchen and a smaller family room adjourned to a meager excuse for a bathroom.
