Voices on the Wind Evening Voices
Evenings Outdoors Beginning with a line by Virginia Hamilton Adair by Wilda Morris All over the U.S. the porches were dying and backyard patios were born. No longer did we sit facing the street as the sun settled into its nightly ritual of disappearance. Some evenings now we light gas grills. The cooks, in their Fatherís Day gift aprons, talk baseball scores and who might win the World Series. While children play badminton or volleyball, Uncle Joe tosses Teresa a beanbag, challenges her to lob it through a circle cut from a short plywood plank. Blake turns up the radio to drown out music from the neighborís cookout, persuades Teresa to dance. As Dad waves them away, saying, Donít get so close to the fire, he drops a Polish sausage through the grate. The fire sizzles, sending up sparks that remind him of the fireflies he chased in childhood. The sliding glass door opens to a parade of relatives in summer shorts and tee-shirts, carrying potato salad, finger foods, coleslaw and condiments, brownies and apple pies. Itís not the front porch on which we watched dry lightning and sang songs together, not the picnic in the park, but here in our backyard, something of each in our summer ritual.