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Rich: The screen door is back in its proper place

There is something about the banging of a screen door - soft, sweet and low - that warms the innards of my being.

Perhaps it is that it takes me back through a journey of memories to a time when everyone I loved still was alive. That is, I suppose, the greatest loss of innocence for me, though there have been many. For I failed to realize then that so many folks I cherished would all too soon become mere memories decorated by names etched in stone. Mortality was something I simply did not understand, nor cared to comprehend.

Throughout my childhood, there are scattered memories of softly banging screen doors, ones that usually had a slight squeaking from the aging spring that controlled the motion of the door.

"It's comin' up a cloud," Mama would say. "Run out there quick and get the clothes off the line."

I'd dart out the kitchen door, throwing the screen open so fast and hard that it hit the side of the house, then hear it close with a loud thump behind me.

Every night, I'd hear the squeak of the spring as the door opened and knew that Daddy was home before he turned the knob and pushed open the heavy wood door.

There was not a spring or summer morning that Mama did not push open with a nudge of her right elbow, the screen door leading to the side porch and tote out a pan of dishwater. Dedicated to her Scotch-Irish upbringing, she did not waste a drop of anything. The discarded liquid was used to water her flowers, most especially her prized red roses.

Growing up in a house without air conditioning, I recall those screen doors were vital in letting in the gentle breezes as well as the smell of fragrant honeysuckle and the occasional scent of cow manure. Since the house was brick, the yard was well shaded with mighty trees and since the small, cooling river was only 50 or 60 yards from the back door, we were often cool enough, with the exception of a