The Slapper Poem by Bill Galvin

SLAP! ! ! … bounce once… slap, again, but quieter, as it closed.
The tension on the long coiled spring,
On the middle panel of the wooden screen door,
Was perfect to bring that door back in quick-time,
And you'd make hasty exits and entrances
To save your heel from getting clipped.
Cottage life in a seaside town - before AC and color TV -
Before pneumatic door closers… Mainers called them slappers.
"Did you have to let it slam? ! ? " Nana would sigh loudly.

The kids did, of course… as they were always on the move,
Inside, outside… outside, inside… opening it wide for best effect.
It seemed as if there was a fidgety telepathy;
They'd be in, then something moved them to be out;
Then outside, let's go in… running like a school of minnows.
Generally, the oldest led the way, youngest last;
Then, it was the boldest, then the quickest… as they got older.
When they finally tired, one would swim off, with no followers.

Drove poor old Nana Hicks nuts… in a good way.

The adults held the door, and made slow, safe transitions,
Sometimes holding it for the younger babes to waddle in.
Then the "Shut the door! ! ! " exclamations flew like curse words.
Nana had a fixation on that wooden screen door - "Shut the door! "
She knew as soon as it was opened, even from another room…
Like a sixth sense… she believed ESP ran in the family, anyway.

When she came in the cottage door, she'd be swatting her head,
Waving hands all about, way before she opened the slapper,
As if there were bees buzzing around her noggin (her word):
Then she'd hop up the one step, pulling the door closed.
And, if she saw you coming in, you had to do the same dance.
"Mosquitoes! ! ! " she'd warble in an upscale crescendo,
"They're terrible this year! " … (every year was the same)

Then, on that evening's hot and muggy night, as you lie in bed,
And you hear the faraway whine of a hungry mosquito,
Which had waited patiently for the lights to go out,
And you are pulling the unneeded sheet up over your head…
Yes… as that whine in the dark becomes louder… closer…
Searching for the prime meaty real estate of your body…
You realize that we should have listened to Nana.

After ten minutes of suffocating under the hot sheet,
You throw it off, disgustedly… get it over with, bite me… bite me!