Before I get started: tonight is the eve before what will probably be one of the biggest events in American history for a very long time. But instead of trying to prognosticate on what will happen tomorrow, I’d like to turn to the summer of 1976. Coincidentally, I started writing this blog about a month ago. Interesting how things get pieced together, like a quilt, in the end. The summer of 1976 we celebrated our bi-centennial.
I still have a quarter from then.
The middle July and summer’s humidity is stifling and way too hot to do anything – especially chores. I’m in disbelief as Mom scolds me as I take white sheets from the barrel of the washing machine and move towards the dryer.
“No, Darling. It’s too hot out. We can’t add even an iota of heat to the air. We shall air-dry them in the backyard,” she said with a lilt in her voice (as light as chiffon pie) coupled with the certainty and determination of “oh yes you will” that only a mother can provide.
“What’s an iota?” I ask.
The mascot of the 21st century and nano-everything. IoT is everywhere.
Iota is the 9th letter of the Greek alphabet.
The common idiom or turn of phrase is
“not one iota”, meaning “not the slightest amount” in reference to a phrase from Matthew 5:18: “until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished”.
“The teeniest amount of anything you can possibly imagine. We will do our part by drying these sheets outside. You’ll be amazed at the result. Pick those up and let’s get started since we have lots to do today.” In one fell swoop she picked up the sheets and climbed the stairs two by two until she reached the top.
I didn’t realize that one of the best things about air-dried sheets was running through them. That summer afternoon the heat bothered neither Flip, my little brother, nor me, as we chased each other through rows of sheets. It became a competition of who would be the catcher and who the “catched”. He was smaller and faster. I was older and taller. My long legs won out.
Late at night lying in my bed between the sun-dried sheets I would agree with Mom. They were way better than the dryer dried, but I’d never admit it to her. They also had the most amazing scent of summer. Even though the pesky high-pitched sound of mosquitoes kept me awake they couldn’t diminish the the intoxicating scent of bleach and grass and July sunshine.
It’s finally dark outside and just on the other side of my door is Mom’s idea of a lullaby: the vacuum cleaner. If I squeeze my eyes tight I can hear over its hum faint sounds of my older brother’s record player from down the hall. Peter Frampton’s “Show Me the Way” wafting on the humid summer night.
The mosquitoes’ buzz dissipates and the sound of the vacuum’s drone wins. My heavy eyelids close. The shadows of kids running through sheets dims. And finally, in between the sun-dried sheets of summer I drift to sleep.