by Debbie Wingate

Created on: July 05, 2008

Sundays and Sandspurs - July 1967

Running barefoot down the dirt lane that leads to Grandpa's house creates billowing clouds of dust the color of smoke. It settles over us like a weightless blanket. We never feel it, but in the hot and humid air, the fine particles turn glistening sweat rings around our necks the color of lead.

My younger brothers are clad only in cut-off jeans, and I am jealous of their shirtless freedom. Just two years before, when I was eight, going topless was fine. Mama says I'm getting' too old now, and have to keep my shirt on. My brothers spy our cousins playing with Grandpa's huntin' dogs, and run to join them. I continue along the dirt road, ever vigilant of the inevitable sandspur; a spiky bur on a weed that is the bane of all who go barefoot in the south.

I hear the crack of a bat, and look toward the ball field that sits in a distant corner of the property. I hear yelling, "Well don't just stand there, one of you go get it."

"It's too damn hot. You're the one hit it out there, you go get it." The voices are familiar, and I realize it's Uncle Johnny at bat. Uncle Greg is pitching, and no one is in the field. Uncles Gary and Gilbert, beers in hand, and gloves laying at their feet, are watching with feigned interest from behind the fence. I wonder if Uncle Billy will come today.

Since he moved his family to Florida, we don't see them very often. Sometimes he drives up alone in his refrigerated eighteen-wheeler and we all chase after him like he was the ice cream man. He climbs down from the cab looking like James Dean's "Rebel Without a Cause" dressed in blue jeans, black boots, and a white t-shirt; a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes is rolled up in his left sleeve. His dark hair and good looks remind me of Elvis.

We follow him to the back of his truck where he unlocks the door and opens it wide. Cold air escapes and swirls around us, cooling our sweat-soaked bodies. He climbs inside and starts tossing out bags of frozen shrimp. We always try to catch them, but they're too cold and heavy for our little arms. They land in the gray, silt-like dirt creating little puffs of dust. We grab them up, and run to the corner of Grandpa's house to rinse them off under the faucet. Then we stack them on the sagging, weather-worn steps of the porch for someone to pick up and place in the freezer.

I look over at the huge oak tree where Uncle Billy would usually park his truck. Today, two long tables covered with red and white checkered tablecloths sit beneath

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