Summer. It was 1964, I was a seven-year-old-half-pint, and it was “a jolly ‘oliday with Mary.” Mary Poppins that is. My siblings and I were so enthralled with the premiere of the movie that we decided to create our own backyard production of the P. L. Travers story.
Mom, always a trooper, indulged our creative appetites. Our sound system was an old record player and I’m pretty sure, at some point, the album we used had a skip in it. Comic relief?! We rolled with it as we performed before a standing-room-only crowd that filled our backyard. The eldest of our troupe (my brother Michael) became our director and cast me as the “practically perfect in every way” English nanny who possessed magical powers. He recently recalled, “Mom helped us type up tickets which we sold, and helped us gather up props and blankets for a stage curtain.
The day of the show so many kids showed up in our backyard we had to borrow more chairs from neighbors and use the dining room chairs as well. As mom was making popcorn and Kool-Aid for us to sell at intermission, Dad came home for lunch (which he NEVER did) and couldn’t pull in the driveway as it was filled with cars from mothers who had brought their kids to the show.
He had to park in the neighbor’s driveway. When he walked in the house, he exclaimed, “What the hell is going on here?!!” Mom just shrugged and said, “The kids are putting on a show! And look the whole neighborhood showed up!!”
Summer. It’s been my favorite season ever since I was a kid. I mean what’s not to like about no alarms, no school, no homework?! Then there’s the whole matter of flip flops instead of boots, bathing suits instead of snowsuits, and …
When the neighborhood pool opened for the season, my siblings and I would ride our bikes at top speed to get there, drop our bikes off under a shade tree (unlocked) and race to be first in line. This pretty much assured us of being the first patrons to jump in the water. And THAT was a big deal!
Other days, after a breakfast of cinnamon toast and orange juice, we would head out the door for neighborhood games of kickball, softball, spud, and kick the can. I’m not sure that we stopped for lunch, but if we did, it was peanut butter and jelly or chipped ham sandwiches on the fly as the next scheme was in motion.
Of course, there was a formal pause for dinner, dishes, and cleanup. Speaking of dinner – if there was anything better than watermelon and fresh strawberries, it was roasted marshmallows over warm coals on the Weber grill after hamburgers. Sometimes s’mores were even on tap.
And fireflies. Who could catch the most to stow away in empty mayonnaise jars?! Moonlight and stars. Filthy-dirty bare feet met with a bath and bedtime in order to prepare for dreams of another adventure the next day.
Summer. Not to mention fireworks, picnics, and the sound of the ice cream truck that putzed down the street giving us a chance to run and collect a hidden stash of loose change for our favorite frozen treat.
Before summer faded there was always a new fort built in the nearby woods. Forts were my younger brother Jim’s specialty. But they were usually exclusive: NO GIRLS ALLOWED!!! It was only when his buddies were out of sight that I was invited for a grand tour.
Times have changed, haven’t they? It tugs at my heart that kids nowadays are gypped out of such homegrown fun. Our good old days will only read like fiction to our grandchildren and beyond. Some would call it progress. Modern “kid” sports seem to be organized like a professional athlete’s training schedule.
And sandwiched in-between such precisely planned and coached activities, kids are kept in a trance with electronic games and gadgetry. They seem to have no need for eye contact, communication, learning how to negotiate first ups, or imagining how to fill an empty afternoon. O. Fred Donaldson once wisely stated, “Children play for the same reason that water flows and birds fly.” Let that sink in.
Not only has there been a shift in the way a summer day is spent, the amount of time itself has changed since we were kids. It used to be that the arms of summer stretched out from the first week of June until the day after Labor Day. Even then, long summer days seemed short. Who decided it’s better, in the middle of August, to learn that two plus two is four? I mean two plus two still equals four in September – when brains are better wired to learn it.
Summer. If you listen, you’ll hear the song of cardinals that seem to say – “Yippee, I get to fly again today!” Too soon the hum of school buses cage children and the freedom of summer. Aw! But the memories are as sweet as corn on the cob dipped in butter. Summer.