Hot summer nights make me think of the summers I spent at my grandmother's place when I was a kid.
It probably goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, that summers spent with your pistol-toting, liquor store-owning granny are memorable. Ruby Nell Forrest was in no way the stereotypical grandmother with tightly curled gray locks and a sweet disposition. A tough woman with long auburn hair and steel blue eyes, she loved the men and the men loved her. She fell hardest for the wrong type, of course, which may account for the fact she was three times divorced. And while basically a good woman, she had a scratchy little thread running straight through her that made her hard at times and not terribly warm.
Gram loved her "soaps" and would plan her entire day around "As the World Turns," "Guiding Light," "Dynasty" and "Dallas." But instead of pulling for Bobby and Krystle, Gram rooted for J.R. and Alexis, giggling with delight as they plotted their next pots to stir.
At night, we would sprawl across our beds with the windows open, because even though it was 97 degrees with 128 percent humidity, we didn't dare turn on that shiny box of cool air dangling from the window. The sheer curtains drifted back and forth with the light breeze, stirring the scents of mothballs and her Emeraude perfume. We'd lie there, bathed in the glow of moonlight and a CB radio.
Citizens Band radio was what you might call "early social media." It was widely popular during the 1970s, especially in the South, perhaps with the help of a little film called "Smokey and the Bandit."
She mainly listened to the chatter, giving me the lowdown on all the characters. It was like "reality radio," where the people were real, the plot was unscripted, and you never knew what was going to happen except that someone was usually getting divorced and losing a trailer house.
Instead of using your name on the radio frequency, you'd use a "handle" or nickname. It was supposed to give a level of anonymity from those listening in who didn't know you, but since everyone knew most everyone else, I hardly saw where it mattered much.
My father was Hunk of Junk, Mama was Trash Can Annie, and I was Little Tin Can. Gram was Lady Bug. We were part of a CB club, and we learned the lingo. "Breaker Breaker 1-9," "10-4" and "Got your ears on?" became standard language around my household.
Decades later, Baxter and I snuggle under our quilt as air conditioning blows over us. The ceiling fan stirs the scents of puppy breath and my rose perfume. We lie there, bathed in the glow of moonlight and a cell phone as I read up on "Downton Abby's" latest season and text friends in abbreviated codes.
The more things change, the more they stay the same. 10-7, Little Tin Can over and out.
NAN Our Town on 08/13/2015