A Dose of Summertime Sentiment on a Fine Day

Summertime in Brazen Grove has been never more delightful. Since Walter and Naomi Birch adopted me, I always find myself going back to this place, year after year. Even after I wandered from the driest desert to the land where the sun does not set, no place felt like home like Brazen Grove did. In a small abode just on the corner of the street, it was the home where I grew up with my adoptive siblings, Finley and Marion. We used to play with other neighborhood kids, unfortunately, they left shortly after high school. And for all I know, they never came back. To me, to never return to the place that gave you comfort and warmth, is beyond me. Or maybe, just maybe, Brazen Grove is not the place for them anymore. Well… what can I say? Their loss.

In forty years, nothing has changed much around here. The small dusty park with a row of swings and the see-saw is still standing there, its steely structure eroded by time. Our old peculiar and feared neighbor, John Johnston, is still living across our humble dwelling. He is blind in one eye and had a huge scar on his face. Still doing the same thing as years ago, tinkering with his barely functional 1950s British Leyland. Usually, I know two things or three about each person living in Brazen Grove. But for him? I knew nothing besides he loves his ancient car like his own child. For some reason obvious, nobody dared to step into his front yard, and nobody did not even want to greet him. He is just not the guy that is pleasant to talk to because every time anyone tried to approach him, he immediately lashes out like a wounded dog. 

That was, well yesterday. Today, it seems like the universe has a plan prescribed just for me on this fine day. After doing my usual morning run, the grumpy neighbor greeted me. I was aghast and could not help but felt special. What he wanted to do with me, I have no single clue. Hopefully, I will live for another day and years to come. After his surprising act of sociability, he then invited me to sit on the folding chair right beside him. I sat on the chair without much thinking. As the warm morning ray hits my freckled face, I tried to squint my eye to fight the unforgiving beam. He reaches for the old shopping bag and takes out a turquoise food container with a cracked lid. With a lot of effort, he tried to open the container. I offered to open it for him, however, he refused straight away. After a minute of maybe three, he eventually got the food container open. Putting my palms downwards above my eyes as an attempt to shield my eye from the sun, I peeked on the food container. There are a few chocolate chip cookies neatly stacked on top of each other. The dew on the container’s lid indicated that these cookies have just been out of the oven.

With trembling hands, he brought the freshly baked cookies closer to my eyes. Like he knew I couldn’t see well when one’s sitting facing the sun. “I baked them this morning,” said he—voice aged, “I saw you running today, you might be hungry.”

The cookies smelled so good, I cannot help but pick one and took a large bite out of it. “Thank you, sir, that is very nice of you.” And good heavens! The cookies are finger-licking good. It is even a hundred times better than the cookies that my sister used to make. I smiled at him as I ate the rest of the cookies. “It is really tasty, the best cookies I have ever eaten.”

Upon hearing my last sentence, he snorted then looked at me from behind his rusty sunglasses. “I hope you do not say that out of politeness. I know people around are avoiding me.”

Even though I could not see his eye, his tone alone depicted decades-long sorrow. “I am being totally honest.” I took another cookie from the container as reassurance. He just stared at me, then took one for himself. 

We then ate in silence and after the sunray getting more and more unforgiving, I excused myself. The old man didn’t even budge when I said ‘bye’ to him. Maybe he thought I took him for granted, so I invited him for a coffee in the evening. He did not respond to the offer, it felt like he screamed a big fat ‘no’, loudly but in silence.

That evening, I helped my mother planting some geraniums in the front yard. After my father’s passing, plants had become her way to cope. She said plants are like her children; you raise them from when they are still in the form of grains, as time went by, they became something graceful. She then harvested a good amount of cherry tomatoes and potatoes that she had sown a few months back. At dinner, we ate my favorite childhood meal, salmon casserole. She has still the same energy as she was in her thirties, however, she is really tired and the thought of losing her terrifies me. Before the sun even sets, she is already in her chamber, resting.

Afterward, I always watch the sunset from the patio accompanied by a cup of cappuccino. A flock of starlings swarming above Brazen Grove is what I find mesmerizing in the dusk. Sometimes the flock has the strangest formation, just to terrify those who attempt to make them prey. A form of survival. Perhaps that is what John Johnston resembles. A person that has been hurt in the past that tried to save himself from the pain other has inflicted. Sadly, the residence of Brazen Grove already gave him horrible names before they know who he really is. 

Mind you, I did not watch the sundown alone today. Shortly after my mother went to bed, John Johnston approached me by the porch. He brought a bag with more cookies and a photo album. With shaky hands, he opened the dusty photo album. On the first page, there are two photos, the first one is a photo from his younger days, the second one is a photo of a beautiful young lady.

“This is me, this is my wife,” He pointed at the picture, “this photo was taken a few days before we got married and three years before I was drafted. We had a son together, we named him Vincent.”

Without his sunglasses on, I can see hurt, anger, and sadness in his piercing eyes. After saying that, he went to the second page. A picture of him, his wife, and his infant son can be seen. “This is our first and last family photo, taken on the first week of summer. Five days later I was drafted,” His lips quiver. “At that moment, I never thought I would never see them again as of December that year the town has been bombed.”

“I am truly sorry for your loss, Sir” I muttered.

I felt his gaze on me, strangely he smiled. “After the war had ended, I have no family and no home to return to. Well, I was truly devastated before a friend invited me to live with him and his family. I am blind on one eye, as you can tell. It is really difficult to find a job, that way you know. A nice family let me work in their bakery, after I had enough money, I bought a house here.”

“No wonder why your cookies tasted really good, you used to work in a bakery!” I chuckled then sips the cappuccino that has gone cold a little. “I find your car very fancy and that is the first thing I noticed when my parents when I moved here from the orphanage.”

“All these years, living in Brazen Grove as a miserable man, I thought I lost my family… It turns out one of them is still alive and well. I found out last summer, actually.” Tears formed in his tired eyes, as he reached out and put his palms on my cheek. “My son has grown to be a strong and kind person.”

Upon hearing his words, I was flabbergasted. Hot tears streamed down my face. I could not form any coherent words, so I hug him. He wiped tears from my eyes then pats my shoulders. “I am very proud of you son.”

As the sky turn purplish, the moon rules over the sky, and the flying insects began to swarm the streetlamps, my father and I spends the rest of the evening catching up on each other’s life. The mysterious, peculiar, angry old man of Brazen Grove is no more, what I see now is a truly happy and joyful man.