Thursday, June 21, 2007

Summertime

A lot of days were like today when I was a kid: hot, humid, a blue sky dotted with fat clouds that meant nothing at all, and nary a breeze stirring. Maybe they weren’t humid. I was too young to know how to pronounce humid, let alone what it meant. Summers were often dry dusty affairs so it could have been arid as easily as it could have been humid and I did know how to pronounce it.

Those were poor days. No one seemed to have much money to spare and those who did pretty much kept it to themselves. Back then, folk kept a lot of things to themselves and I’m not sure it was a bad thing. There were a few things we had in abundance. Things like sandburs, grasshoppers, seemingly endless days and a never-ending series of adventures to fill the hours of those endless days. If we ran short of imagination, Mom was always close at hand to help us. I can assure you her help was unwanted and not appreciated in the least. So little appreciated we quickly learned to keep moments of boredom a closely guarded secret.

I remember one hot summer day a small group of buddies and I were playing army on a vacant lot strategically placed and situated for our maneuvers. As we were marching back and forth with our stick rifles on our shoulders and helmet liners on our heads, Mrs. Post, the third grade teacher, passed by and stopped to watch. She was almost ancient. Ancient meant anyone who had made it past his or her early 20s. The age thing didn’t include parents. Parents were in a classification where age and looks wouldn’t exist for a few more years. She seemed a rather dour individual; stocky and always dressed in nondescript personality-washing gray. At least, that is the way I remember her.

She watched us for a while and then remarked, “That is good, boys. It is good that you practice. Someday, you will have to go fight for your country and you will be ready.”

Odd how that chance remark from a teacher I can barely remember has stuck with me all these years. She was right, you know – at least the part about being called upon to fight at our country’s behest. I wish I could remember my buddies’ names from that day so I could see how many of them made it to Vietnam and how many of them came home to resume their lives.

That was the summer I went into the Kool-Aid business and sold the Grit. If I wanted to be truthful, I would say that Mom and I went into the Kool-Aid business. She supplied the beverage as well as made it. She helped me build the stand. I inherited Dad’s building and mechanical talent, which means I inherited the ability to screw things up more quickly than the law should allow. Mom is the one who came up with a pair of white pants, ironed the white shirt, and made me a white pillbox soda-jerk type hat.

We set the stand up across from the drugstore. I doubt they felt much of a drop in business when I started pushing Kool at three cents a shot. In case you’re wondering, back then a proper drug store included a proper soda fountain and a proper soda fountain was a wonder to behold and experience. The stand didn’t last long. It was too damned boring and no one is going to retire young at three cents a shot in small town America.

Life is sweet – and those memories are one of the reasons.
Buffalo 2:03 PM

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