By Jean West Rudnicki
Summers growing up – was anything sweeter? Three
months of total, absolute, pure and glorious freedom,
fun and adventure. No schedule, no classrooms, no
PE, no homework. Nooooo nuns! When the school
bell rang that last day, the doors burst open and the
kids poured out; running, shouting, celebrating the
start of summer.
In life, there are some things that we learn, as adults, to look back
upon and appreciate with the added years and wisdom of age, but that’s
not true of summers – those sweet, sweet seasons were never wasted
on the young. Even as kids we knew they were special: a three-month
smorgasbord of activities, sights, sounds, and smells that belonged only
to the days and nights of summer.
 During the day there were battles with my brother over household
chores – disputes about who had been told to do what. “Mom told you
to do the dishes,” one of us would charge. “She did not!” the other
countered. “I’m calling Daddy.” A wrestling match ensued as we fought
over the telephone to be the first to call.
We didn’t dare call Mom. She worked at Sears and Roebuck, and
calls were forbidden. Dad was the parts department manager for a Memphis car dealership; we called him a gazillion times a day to rat on each other. The calls went something like this: Me (crying):
“Daddy, Ken hit me.” Ken: “Jeanie started it.” Dad, his blood pressure
rising, fumed: “Gosh, dang it! Didn’t I tell you...,” rattling off a litany of
admonitions and threats. It was fun getting my brother in trouble, but
even more fun listening to Dad get mad – from a distance.
My brother and I eventually called a truce and renewed speaking
terms. Before long we were playing our home-grown, made-up games.
Armed with cocked index finger and thumb, we chased around the
house trying to tickle each other, shouting “tick-o-lock,” “tick-o-lock”
(where the name came from I have no idea). We were rambunctious,
jumping up and down on the beds, sofa and chairs, all the while
rollicking with uncontrolled laughter.
“Make Moochie Mad” was another favorite – Moochie being our
beloved, medium-sized Heinz-57 pooch. We took turns wrapping
ourselves up in a blanket on the floor in the bedroom. The other
person would agitate Moochie until she was growling, lip-curling,
snapping mad. Then, jumping clear, we’d turn her loose to vent her
wrath on the person wrapped in the blanket. Moochie attacked with a
vengeance, and it was only the thickness of the blanket that protected
the “victim” from her teeth. We deserved every bite the Mooch scored,
and probably a lot more!
 There were summer lunches, too. One favorite was Chef Boyardee
Spaghetti, which came in a box complete with pasta, marinara mix
and cheese. Wow! What a treat! We thought this was the best stuff in
the world – our young taste buds, like our young minds, had much to
learn. Following the directions carefully, we boiled the pasta, warmed
the tomato sauce on our gas stove (microwave ovens were yet to be
invented). A sprinkle of Parmesan cheese from the little green can,
and voila! Bon appetite – from the fledging chefs of summer.
Outside, we entertained ourselves with cartwheels across the front
lawn, spinning in circles with arms outstretched until we dropped as
the world kept spinning, and jumping rope (Gloria Hill, my hero, was
the all-time neighborhood “hots” champ. She could jump a million
without a miss). We played hide ’n seek, skated, made jewelry out of
clover, and perched ourselves in the branches of the mimosa tree. The
Popsicle Man’s daily arrival was greeted with shouts and cheers as we
raced to be the first in line. Our bikes took us everywhere – a trip
around the block was a trip around the world.
“The Jungle” was down at the corner – a dark and dangerous place.
We pedaled as fast as we could through this treacherous stretch. A steep, ivy-covered hill rose up like a wall on one side of the
walk; large crabapple trees lined the other, their branches
arching over the sidewalk like a canopy, blocking the sun
and casting a dark shadow. It was a quarter of the block
long, but seemed like miles. If ever there was a
spot where “something” could get you, it was
in the Jungle.
Page 2
|
|
