30 SEC-ondsssssss

A child's memory can be reinforced by an insignificant act or phrase that acts as a milemarker of something that has just happened or something that usually follows. Family traditions grow through these acts and phrases, becoming significant as they provide a hingepin for the child's life.

For me, the significant phrase is "30 Seconds!"

Summer always lazed away: a forever time, and yet never quite long enough. The heat and humidity of southern Maryland imposed its own pace upon our movements. Even now, I swear the sun was so intense at times that I could hear the sheets on the clothesline crinkle and stiffen as the water evaporated from their surfaces.

Despite this heat, we would frequently have barbecued chicken for dinner—and no, not the slathered-in-sauce barbecue, but the chicken-done-over-a-charcoal-grill barbecue. And being the '60s, I'm speaking of the heavy, black-enameled, rotund Webber with real charcoal.

The smell of charcoal heating would sift through the screened porch and enter the kitchen, where it would mix with the rich aroma of cooking vegetables and the sound of lettuce being broken and radishes being chunked. I'd set the table, which for the summers was a card table set on the screened porch, and in my journey from kitchen to table back to kitchen and back to table, I'd wander between the various smells.

Mom and Dad had to coordinate their parts of the dinner, of course. And to this day, I do not know when or how this elegantly simple routine came into existence, but when the chicken was close to done, my Dad would raise his voice from the back patio and sing out "Thir-ty SEC-ondsssssssss." It was as if that call were the hinge upon which the evening meal revolved. All that came before was a way of preparing for that call; all that came after — the bustle of getting everything from the kitchen to the table (including us) — was the result of that call. Dad would come in with the plate bearing the chicken, and we would sit down to eat as a family.

Sometimes, this thirty seconds was literally NOT thirty seconds. Maybe he decided to vary the routine, or even more than likely, he had forgotten to yell his 30-second warning, but sometimes AS he brought the plate in the screened door of the porch, he'd yell "30 seconds." Of course, it was a bit late, no? Other times, he'd sing out "three SECondssssssssss," but it would be more like two or three minutes. But hey, that's southern Maryland summer time. The seconds weren't important; nor the minutes.

It was the elegant and simple routine that a young child could count on.