I miss the way Mom and Dad talked.

I miss the way my parents talked. I love accents. 

Colloquial pronunciations, phrases, and speech patterns seem to be disappearing. I believe that mass communication like radio and TV have played a part in watering down our familiar ways of speaking. When I was a kid in the 70’s, I watched The Brady Bunch and The Partridge family. The actors spoke as if they had no accent at all. Some of it rubbed off on my generation. Migration played a role in softening our accents as well. During my elementary school years, there was only one family that I knew that was from somewhere besides Charlotte. It was a place called New York City. The Carney’s were our next-door neighbors and they spoke very differently from us. When their nephew, Jerry, would visit from New York, it was like some exotic foreigner had come to town. We asked him about the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. We were astonished that Jerry had been to neither of them. I wish that I had managed to hang on more to the gentile and lyrical way my parents spoke. I mean, I still pronounce many words just like my parents did, but it does not sing and flow or follow the same cadence. The way they waxed poetic about the pinkness of the sky as we took a sunset boat ride up the main channel of Lake Norman. The sun would disappear just beyond the tree-lined shore. Their words sauntered like a walk along a meandering path. My parents were both born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina in the 40s and 50s. People from other parts of the United States probably thought that all southerners sounded the same. They could not discern a Piedmont accent from an Appalachian or Coastal accent. To some we just all sounded southern, which is fine, but do not confuse southern with Country. Country is not just in the south. North Carolina is blessed with three distinct geographical regions. For most of our history, geography kept Carolinians somewhat isolated. Our coastal areas were difficult to navigate due to treacherous shoals and shallow sounds. Before modern highways, the Appalachian Mountains were only reached by those who had previously resided hilly country in some other part of the world. Charlotte sits squarely in the Piedmont. Charlotteans, and residents of the other mid-size cities in the Piedmont developed a style of elocution that was Charleston elegant, without the haughtiness. My parents spoke in an elegant, yet humble tone. I find that a difficult line to walk the talk, but it was second nature to them. I can hear a Charlotte accent a mile away. Several months ago, an elderly gentleman came into a store where I was working. His accent was exactly like my fathers. I asked if he happened to grow up in Eastover or Myers Park, both are old Charlotte areas where my father had spent his childhood. The man seemed happy I noticed and said that he had indeed grown up in Eastover. He even shared a memory of having a grade school crush on my father’s sister Mary Josephine! My Aunt Jo. When I hear someone from Charlotte speak in that old Charlotte way, it melts my heart. Sometimes I hear my parents in the voices of their friends that are still with us, like Nancy Thomas and Catherine Barnhardt Browning. I hear the warmth of my mother’s tone in the natural drawl spoken by my cousins Marimac and Suzanne. They managed to hang on to more than I did. My siblings and I sound like each other. We certainly use phrases that came directly from our parents. Yet, Charlotte has grown so much that most folks are from somewhere else. All those new bits and pieces of language work their way in to and meld with our own and create something new. I guess that is the way language works. But I would give the world to hear Mom to say that something is, “just wuhndehrful,” once more. I want to hear her kind, soft southern voice say, “It’ll be bettahr in the morning. Ev’rything seems worse at night. I want to hear my Dad say that he can’t talk on the phone right now because, “I’m holdin’ court on the patio.” Oh to hear him say any of these things one more time! “I’m watching the Golf Toonament.” “Pass the Wooster, please.” “These pi-tachios are great”. I want him to tell me how much he always loved my “muhther.”

Sweet Treats at the 7-11

When I was ten years old, I was filled with delicious anticipation whenever I took a little spin on my bike to the 7-11.  The pockets of my camp pants would be heavily weighted down change that I had scrounged around for. It was amazing how careless adults were with their money!  Pennies, Nickels, dimes, and an occasional Quarter or two were everywhere in our house. In junk drawers, under cushions, in little knick-knack dishes, and old beer steins. Once I was satisfied that I had found all the dough I could, I was off to purchase as much candy as my newly found treasure would buy. But, it could not be just any candy. It had to be a carefully chosen mix of good candy that also offered a high return on investment. My profit was sweetness and the goal was to buy an assortment that would last a very long time. It was the 1970s, and the candy racks were filled with varieties that have mostly disappeared from the shelves today.

There was logic behind each selection I made. My pocket change would only go so far. I knew that to get my money's worth, I would have to purchase a certain amount of what the old folks called penny candy. These were more like nickel or dime candy in my day. My go-to for this category were called bb-bats!  bb-bats were basically a kind of flavored taffy on a paper stick. They came in fruit flavors that had that off-kilter, uncanny, artificial taste to them. Banana was my favorite. Strawberry was a distant second. I would get about four or five of these and still have plenty of coins remaining.

Next, I had to decide what my major purchase would be. Which candy bar or two would I spend up to 35 cents on? This was a make or break decision. I could have gone for a classic like a Snickers, but that would be a mistake. It would be at the top end of the price range and it was shorter than some other bars to boot. My decision usually boiled down to this: 

Choice A: I could go with a Marathon bar. It was 8 inches long!  And we knew that because they printed a ruler right on the package.  We had been taught in school that the metric system was coming to America any day then. So, the good folks at the Marathon bar company had included centimeters on the ruler as well. I now knew that 8 inches equaled twenty centimeters.

 I believe that is the only metric conversion that I still know today.

Choice B:  The less obvious, but equally compelling option of the enigmatic
Nestle's Choco-Lite bar. Was it a weird texture? Was there something a little off with the flavoring? The answer was yes, on both counts. It was described as being filled with crispy chips. I do not know what chips they are talking about. In my experience there was nothing but little air holes dispersed throughout the whole candy bar. The wrapper boasted that it would give me a special chocolaty feeling. Notice they said chocolaty, not chocolate. But, it had a couple of things going for it.  First, it was usually priced a bit lower than the other bars. And second, I have to admit that there was something to that bit about a special chocolaty feeling. It seemed to make the sweetness linger a little longer on my tongue.

Usually, I had enough to purchase both bars, as long as I bypassed some of the other similarly priced non-bar candy.  So, my other option might be to get the Marathon bar. It would take a long time to chew through 8 inches of the chocolate coated and extra-chewy caramel filling. Instead of the chocolaty air-hole bar, I could go with something much more sugary. I often went for the Fun Dip. Whoever invented this was a genius! It was basically a laminated foil pouch filled with flavored sugar crystals. The brilliance was in the method that the good folks at fun dip invented for eating the sugary powder. In a separate compartment in the pouch was a little stick made of compressed sugar. So, you would lick the sweet stick to wet it with your saliva, and then dip the sticky-stick into the flavored sugar. It was like magic the way the colorful sugar crystals would then cling to the stick. Then you return the coated, sugary utensil back to your mouth to suck the flavored crystal right off of it. This process was then repeated over and over until all the fun dip was gone. You had no choice at this point then but to finish off the much diminished stick.

There were other choices that could be made. Some of my other options included a candy that offered more than just a sweet flavor. Zotz were little hard candies with a wicked surprise. Soon after you popped it in your mouth, you would feel a little bit of some fizzy, sweet and sour, substance begin to leak from inside the hard shell. Not long after that, the candy shell would give way to a complete release of its fizzy center. It virtually exploded in your mouth, and soon you would feel like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth.  Everyone raves about Pop-Rocks, but they had nothing on Zotz. 

Some others that might make it in my mix were candies like Now & Laters, which we called something that sounded like Ni-ar-laters. They were basically little, sour blocks of taffy. I also enjoyed Sugar Daddy's. Not the most politically sensitive name for a candy. Speaking of politically incorrect, I occasionally bought candy cigarettes. They were a clear attempt to normalize smoking, but back then I just thought they made me look cool. They tasted like sweet chalk, but flavor was not really the point.

The candy that disappointed me the most were called Bottle Caps. They were shaped like the caps on soda bottles. They were supposed to have soda flavorings. They were  flavors like cola or root beer,  and orange or grape soda. They tasted awful. It was a great concept, but can you imagine if they had done this right? What if they had combined efforts with one of the major soda makers. You could have had more genuine flavors. They could have capitalized on the name recognition of Coca-Cola or Pepsi-Cola. A real missed opportunity.

These days I can not eat candy in the kind of quantities I did as a kid. I believe it would be the end of me if I did. 

I still have a sweet tooth though. 

And I still get that delicious anticipatory feeling when I drive my car to  the 7-11 to grab a zero-sugar Monster drink and a one dollar  pack of two freshly baked cookies, no bag please. 

Check out Marathon bar commercial here.

I Remember Places

“There are places I remember 

in my life, though some have changed 

Some forever not for better 

Some have gone and some remain.”

John Lennon

There are places that I remember in clear detail.  In my life, hardly any places remain as they were. However, I can call them up from the files in my brain and magically transport myself to them as they existed before. My mother re-entered the workforce when I was about ten years old. I had lots of time to explore and roam free, by myself. We lived in Charlotte on a street of small cottages between Eastover and Cotswold. These neighborhoods were divided by, Briar Creek, one of Charlotte’s main waterways. On our side of Briar Creek, there was a pocket of woods with trails, a tributary creek, four small lakes, and a real waterfall.

I spent countless hours exploring every inch of these woods without supervision. I could never become bored in these woods. There were always things to do. I could build little boats made of twigs and send them sailing down the creek. Would my small vessels make it past the boulders, through the rapids, to land safely in a large and calm pool that beavers had created by building a dam? It was a perilous journey for a boat made of twigs. Some made it, some did not.

I look back on the woods now with reverence. For me, it is a sacred place. It may not exist now as it did then, but it remains the same in my mind. I can go back anytime I want and traverse the trails that my feet took so many steps along. I can close my eyes and step into the Morrison’s yard where I would cut across to make my way to the foot of the waterfall. In my mind, I can hear the water spilling over the concrete dam and crashing over the rocks that have been unearthed by the current. I can visualize the old split rail fence that had collapsed in places making it easy to cross into the woods. 

There was an easy spot to rock-hop across the creek to get to the main part of the woods. This was where the trail began. Then it went up a steep hill beside the waterfall, past the first lake which was created by the dam. This is where the trail turned back in the opposite direction and leveled off. From there I made my way to the second lake; an old, abandoned rock quarry. There were two huge boulders that served as a kind of overlook. Sometimes, I might just sit there for a while. If the water was clear, you could sometimes spot an old cart that was used to haul rocks deep beneath the surface. A little further down the trail was a spot known as “Skipper’s Island.” This is where the older kids would hang out when they skipped school, hence the name. Skipper’s Island was really a peninsula that jutted out into the third lake, which was more of a wetland than a lake. It was not deep, and the ground was always soggy around it. Neither the rock quarry nor the lake at Skipper’s Island were connected to the creek.

From Skippers Island, I could backtrack down the trail which then continued to follow the bends in the creek. This part of the trail was high above the creek. The water had cut deep into the earth creating two opposing red-clay walled cliffs. From the trail, you could look over the cliff's edge and see the deep pool built by  beavers.  The water was green and murky. I once saw some sort of giant lizard leap from the top of the cliff and land right in the pool. No one believed me when I told them about it.

Moving along, the trail made its way down a slope and through a wide gulley. The gulley opened to an old wood and rope bridge that connected back to the other edge of the Morrisons yard. Sometimes I might cross the bridge and head back home. Sometimes I would continue following the creek. The trail was not as reliable the rest of the way, but it was easy rock hopping once I was this far downstream of the waterfall. Near the bridge was an area called, “Sand Circle.” A sandy spot encircled by trees that had fallen during a tornado that touched down there. The sand was yellow and flecked with shiny mica. There were freshwater clam shells everywhere. I liked to dig through the sand to find large pieces of mica. For me, it was like finding gold.

At this point, the creek was shallow enough to ford. Once on the opposite side of the creek, the trail was narrow and uneven. This was where I was most likely to slip and would end up getting soaked in creek water. But the last leg of the trail was worth the risk. As I rounded the last bend, lake number four would come into view. It was the largest lake. The trail side of the lake was wooded. The other side was not. There was a large and lush lawn that gently sloped upwards to a stately two-story brick home. To me, it was a mansion. There were mansions on the trail side as well, but they were hidden by the dense woods. I would make my way along the shoreline, wondering what would happen if someone saw me. Would they yell at me to get off their property? No one ever saw me though.

Stonebridge was the final stop and it was at the far end of the lake. Just in front of the bridge was a dam built from stones that matched the bridge. The water did not cascade over this dam like the one at the waterfall. Instead, it trickled out of old pipes that jutted out of the dam. The bridge crossed over the creek and was adjacent to the dam. I would make my way across the road and down the embankment to stand under the bridge. In my memory, it was always cooler under that bridge than anywhere else. I felt safe there. I felt safe in the these woods. I can’t imagine my childhood without them. 

I usually followed Stonebridge Lane back to Vernon Drive. It was an easy walk from there to our cottage on Providence Drive. Remnants of the woods remain, but most of my woods are gone. For some people, the woods were just an opportunity for development and profit. For me, they were so much more. The woods were my refuge. The time I spent in the woods gave me confidence to be self-reliant. 

The woods were my friend.

There are places we remember. I remember the woods.

Me and Uncle Ted

I want to tell you all about my Uncle Ted or Theron C. Teagle, Sr. Many people knew him much better than I. But each of us all have our own private relationships with the people in our lives. So, each of us have as many stories of who we are, as there are people in our lives. Even those that we have only brief encounters with may develop a story of who we are if the encounter is especially unique or emotional. Uncle Ted died this past Monday at age 94. He was the widower of my late Aunt Mary Josephine, my father's sister. Together, they were Aunt Jo and Uncle Ted. Uncle Ted was the last living member of my parent's generation of our family. His passing makes the absence of my own parents seem even more distant. He was the last one to have real live memories of my father as a boy, the little brother to his girl, Mary Jo. 

If we had held a contest of superlatives among the Franklin-Teagle clan, Uncle Ted would have won "best-looking" hands down. The Franklins tend to grow into adults that are a bit soft around the middle. Uncle Ted stood out at the family gatherings. There was no softness in his middle. As a former Golden Gloves Boxer, he looked the part. Broad shoulders, a straight and strong posture, and square jawed. In some photos he looks like he could be a famous movie star. He might appear a bit intimidating at first glance. But if you caught his attention, his face would soften, and his eyes took on a kind and welcoming shape.

 

As a child, I was shy and a bit nervous around groups that were as large as the gatherings of our extended family. I was the youngest of all my cousins and teenagers could be a bit too much for a six- or seven-year-old me. They were all kind to me, and all attempted to involve me in their activities. Uncle Ted seemed to have a knack for spotting when I might be feeling overwhelmed or occasionally left out. He would call, " Scott! Come over here. I want to talk with you a little bit." And I would go and talk with him. Maybe I am imagining it, but he seemed to be especially fond of me. That is probably the benefit of being the baby of the family.  Uncle Ted was not the type to suddenly pick me up or try to get to the bottom of what might be bothering me.

 

Instead, he would talk to me in a way that showed he had interest in me. He asked me questions. He asked what I thought about this or that. Sometimes, when he sensed that I was comfortable enough, he might put out his hands and say, "Come sit up here with me." And I felt safe in his strong arms. And I was fascinated by the tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. He did not want to talk about it too much. He said that I should never get one because you must live with it the rest of your life. On the rare occasion that I have considered a tattoo, I hear Uncle Ted's ominous warning about not being able to get rid of it.

 

It was not until the age of FaceBook that I began to see that not all our family members were on the same page politically. Politics were not really discussed at polite gatherings. Unfortunately, this new virtual space became an impolite gathering space. Impolite subjects are discussed and debated and argued. I can tell you that as far as politics was concerned, Uncle Ted and I were on opposite sides of most issues. But that does not change the way I knew him. I knew him as a man who took the time, always, to make sure that he and I would have one on one time at every family gathering. He continued to be interested in what I was up to and how me and my family were doing. He did not just inquire about our lives, he listened. And you knew he was listening because he had follow-up questions to every answer given.

I called Uncle Ted a few months ago. It had been a couple of years since I had last talked with him. He sounded exactly as he always had. At 93 years old he was clearly more mentally sharp than I have ever been in my life.  I had questions. I asked him about my dad as a boy. Uncle Ted was able to clarify some facts for me about the various spots in Charlotte that Dad and my grandmother had lived after my grandfather died at a very young age. We talked about Charlotte and how it has changed, we talked about my real estate business that I had just started. Uncle Ted gave me some excellent business advice. He had a real grasp for the economic changes happening in Charlotte versus Columbia where he lived most of his later half of life. It was one of the nicest conversations that I had in a while. We even said "I love you" to each other as we hung up our phones. Those were the last words between us. And the most important ones that we ever said to one another.

 

 

 

A Vote for a Boat

Ken and Tommy

The voting room.

Mom and Dad had called a family meeting. We were all expected to attend. That would be me, my sister, and my two brothers. This was in the 1970's when I was 8 or 9 years old. Our parents were not usually "family meeting" type people. For most issues there was not a reason to have meetings or even discussions. It was as if Mom and Dad were of one mind that was always on the same page. We did not typically vote on decisions effecting the family. Under normal conditions, our parents were autocrats. Benevolent, but make no mistake, they called the shots.  The uniqueness of my parents calling a family meeting is partly why the details seem so clear in my mind. Although the topic of the meeting is more likely the reason that I can recall the scene so vividly. Our family was about to vote on something that would change our lives.

 

For months, our family had been making plans and saving money to go on a trip to Puerto Rico. We even had one of those big, glass milk jugs to throw our spare change in to help pay for the trip. Everyone had been pitching in to make it possible for us to travel to this tropical paradise. The reason Puerto Rico was chosen was that my Aunt Jo and Uncle Ted Teagle had moved there with their four kids. Uncle Ted had a job assignment that required they spend a couple of years living on what seemed like a magical island to me. My cousin Ted even had a pet monkey. (Or at least I think he did). We were all excited about going to see our cousins and vacationing on the beaches among the palm trees.

 

But here we were sitting around our dining room table about to have a meeting. We weren't having dinner or playing a board game like would normally happen at tis table. Mom got our attention and said that Dad had an announcement to make, and that after he made it, we were going to take a vote. This was getting interesting. We were all going to decide something together, as a family. Dad cleared his throat and said, "I spoke with Mary Jo this morning and they are moving back to the Carolinas sooner than expected. In fact, they will be back here a couple of weeks before we are scheduled to be in Puerto Rico." Suddenly it was like a scene from The Brady Bunch, everyone talking over each other and asking Dad what we were going to do. At least one of my siblings was already saying that they still wanted to go on the trip, automatically assuming that is what we were about to vote on.  And it was, but there was an important twist to this family decision. A twist that would change the course of the next couple of decades of my life.

 

After a few minutes of the noisy debate about taking the trip even if our cousins were not there anymore, Dad hollered, "Simmer down!". That one always worked. As we quieted down, Dad went on, "Now I know that everyone has been really looking forward to making this trip. And even though the Teagles would not be there, we could still go to Puerto Rico. And I am sure we would make great memories there that would last some time." He glanced over at Mom and continued, "Between what is in the milk jug and the money your mother and I set aside, we have the money it would take to pay for the trip and a place to stay." We were all starting to feel a little glum about right now. My enthusiasm for visiting this magic island kind of deflated when I heard that we would not know anyone there. I think my siblings were suspicious that this vote was going to be about more than just whether we go on this trip. There had been times before when dad would bring home a brochure all about some new and fancy car. Dad would say and it looks like we can afford it. But, without fail, he would ultimately decide on something more practical and more in line with what we could really afford. It looked like this meeting may have been headed in that direction. We were thinking: Here it comes...responsible with money... blah blah, blah...we must be practical...blah,blah,blah.

 

Dad

We were wrong. Dad continued, "Like I was saying, we could go on the trip, and we would have one wonderful memory." He paused. He looked at Mom, who was beaming back at him. Mom was excited about something. You could tell that she wanted to just blurt out whatever it was that dad was taking his time getting to. Dad said, "One great memory, or we could use this money we saved, buy a boat and make lots of memories on lake Norman. We could even take it to the waterway when we go to the beach."  Now we were all excited. Dad reminded us that we still had to vote. He said we would vote by secret ballot so that no one would be worried about putting down what they really wanted on the slip of paper that Mom handed out. 

 

We all cast our ballots and put them into a candy dish that Mom held out for each of us to place our vote in. We were all giddy by this point. Dad was smiling and made some sort of funny, but official sounding proclamation about the civic demonstration of democracy at work. Then he began to count the votes, "The first vote says." And he turned the paper so we could see my 8-year-old handwriting spelling out BOAT. We all laughed. The next vote was also boat. It ended up being unanimous.

 

Dad did not change his mind this time. We had been spending lots of time at Lake Norman but were dependent on others to let us join them on their boats. Now we would have our own.  We had a permanent campsite at a campground and marina on Lake Norman. I think that my brother Tommy went with Dad to get the boat. Tommy showed back up at the campsite having driven the car and the new boat trailer back from the boat lot. Dad was navigating his way down the main channel and due to arrive in our cove at any moment.

 

And here he came. I fell in love with the boat immediately. It was a 16' Larson Tri-hull, bowrider with an 85 horsepower Mercury outboard motor. When Dad rounded the bend back toward our cove it looked like the boat was going so fast. I know now that its top speed was 32 mph, but that is still a fun speed on a boat. The Larsen was yellow and white. It had a cool zigzag in the stripe that ran down the side of it. I would go on to have many adventures in that boat.

 

The vote my family took that night changed almost everything that was to come in my life. It was a determining factor in my parent's decision to move to Lake Norman when I was twelve years old. That meant I would have to change schools. I would be leaving my friends from the old neighborhood. I'd have to make new friends. But those were just small things. The real change, for me, set in motion by that vote, was my lifelong love of boats, lakes, and waterways. Boats may be a hole in the water that you throw money in as my father used to say. But the innumerable memories of skiing along behind Mom and Dad's evening sunset boat rides, taking all my friends to the lake side reggae shows, and anchoring in private coves for a cool swim were worth every penny we put in that hole in the water.  

Where Butterflies Perch on Teeth

"...where butterflies perch on teeth..." Bob Dylan, Nobel Acceptance Speech

 

Where Butterflies Perch On Teeth 

 

On this snow quiet morning

before the new day's dawning

I finally had the time to review

my "watch later" list on YouTube.

I wandered aimlessly

through recordings of reality,

videography, pixelated digitally.

Clips put aside with the intention

of watching when I could pay attention.

On this snow quiet morning

before the new day's dawning,

I unexpectedly and happily found

profound words captured in the sound

of the voice of a prophetic poet

Bob Dylan, the Nobel laureate.

In his cadence, his rhythm, and rhyme

he uttered words that were so sublime,

they secured his literary designation,

and were themselves, a revelation.

On this snow quiet morning

as the new day is dawning,

I understand the meaning beneath

 "where butterflies perch on teeth."

 

 

 

 

Looking for Clarity in the Fall

November is National Native American Heritage month. By mid-November we are way past the Autumnal equinox and only a month or so away from the onset of Winter. November is also the month when Americans gather their families around a bountiful meal and re-count a false narrative about the peaceful and cooperative nature of the relationship between early English settlers and the aboriginal people of North America. It makes for a lovely and hopeful story. In fact, Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. 

I have been thinking about the Native people who lived on this land before the Europeans arrived. I wonder if there is a way to turn our traditional Thanksgiving into a day to reflect upon the genocide that resulted from the European practice of colonialism. We should honor the Tribes and Nations and the descendants of the first Americans by committing to learn more about them as a people that still live among us now. We often act as if these people just moved on and we hardly acknowledge their existence. 

So, here we are in mid-November. I find myself wishing that my mind was as clear as the Carolina blue skies. I can find small moments of clarity, if I stop and breathe in the cool air and take the time to notice how especially brilliant the fall colors are this year. When I try to write these days, I find that the moments of clarity show up amidst a bundle of thoughts that refuse to connect with each other like I want them to. So, I decided that I will just write anyway and put it out in the world to be read or ignored. Here is what that looks like:

 

It feels like Fall arrives suddenly. And it is welcome when it arrives. Sure, summer is great. For a while. Summer is that party guest at your home that never seems to know when the party is over. Summer wears out its welcome. 

Just when it feels like you can not bear another day of the smothering heat and humidity, you hear a rustling of the leaves high up in the white oaks and a crisp cool breeze brushes across your sweaty skin. You feel like your whole body just ate a Peppermint Patty! Ah, what a relief. As the sun goes down, the humid air in your house turns into a chilly dampness. You might even think that you should start a fire or turn on the heat for just a bit to knock the chill down. But you don't. Instead, you pull a nice quilt out of the cedar chest and let the new crispness in the air allow you to sleep comfortably for the first time in what has felt like an eternity. And just like that, you wake up the next morning and immediately know that Fall has arrived. 

I rarely use the word autumn at all. Autumn does not feel like a word that captures the suddenness in which Fall seems to arrive. But, if we really pay attention, we realize that Fall doesn't really arrive suddenly. It is just that the initial onset kind of takes you by surprise. Fall is a bit of a tease.  Fall gives you a taste of the cool days for a week or so and then lets Summer make a brief return visit. For some reason we all seem to love that Summer has come back to visit. This second appearance of Summer is milder. It's like Summer grew up and mellowed out a bit and comes by just to say, "see you next year."  

In the United States we call this second mini -Summer an Indian Summer.  Just last week, we had some pleasantly warm fall days. I was in a Zoom class when the instructor said that he was enjoying the Indian Summer. I have heard and used this term my whole life. But, for some reason it clanged on my ears when he said it. I am not sure why. I wondered if this term might seem offensive to Native Americans.

I remember when I was a kid that if you gave something of yours to someone and then changed your mind, the person you un-gifted might call you an Indian-Giver. I had no idea what the giving and taking back scenario had to do with American Indians. It was a common thing to say or hear.  Sometime during my education, I became aware of all he treaties, agreements, and promises that had been made by the United States to the Indian Nations. In almost every case the United States government would back out of the deal. It occurred to me that we were the real Indian-Givers. As a people, we regularly gave a promise of land, or peace, or compensation to the American Indians, and then we took it back. That perspective kind of turns the term on its head, doesn't it? Fortunately, the use of the term Indian-Giver has all but disappeared from the vernacular.

But the term Indian Summer persists. I decided to investigate it a bit. There is much speculation about its origin and why it is used to describe this short, second summer-like weather appearing in Autumn. The only thing that everyone agrees on is that it originated in America. The earliest written reference is in a French poem from the 1700s. It does not appear in writing again until an English document in the 1850s. It became and is still used as an official meteorological term for unseasonably warm weather. However, the term is now being discouraged among meteorologists due to trainings being offered by an organization called The Corporate Indigenous Training Company. They believe the term had a racist origin in that referring to a late summer that way is a way of saying Indians are always late. Since this term is primarily a white, southern saying, I am pretty sure that the folks at ICT, inc. are correct.

But let’s turn this term on its head too. The first Europeans to land on these shores were completely ignorant that the Americas even existed. Christopher Columbus thought he had sailed around the world and landed on the Western side of India. Therefore, he thought the indigenous people he found there were, in fact, Indians. We, Europeans, are stubborn people. Hundreds of years after realizing that Columbus was mistaken about finding the other side of India, we still insist that the people who were living in the Americas for thousands of years before Europeans arrived were Indians nonetheless! I think it is time to admit that we got it wrong. 

Let's let go of Indian Summer just like we did with Indian Giver. Let's find another term for it. I like halcyon days, but that will never catch on. Let's just call these mild days in autumn what they really are. A pleasant gift. A mild day with the clearest blue sky. A chance to stop and notice the world as it is and not as we pretend it to be. Take a moment to reflect on the words we choose to use and think about whether they are hurtful or disrespectful of others. Take a moment to just enjoy the weather. While it lasts.