Sunday, Jul. 05, 2009

Here's to an old friend, Summer

The July Fourth holiday weekend is when I think most about my old friend, Summer.

You remember Summer, don't you?

Once, she was informal, spontaneous, unpredictable, yet comfortably secure and safe.

Once, Summer was the carefree season of no school when there was so much to do you didn't have time to sit around and complain about the heat and humidity.

Of course, summer is still incredibly hot and humid but when it comes to carefree things to do, well, it seems like she has lost some of her old sizzle.

Summer is still a favorite friend. Golf. Ballgames. Vacations. Bike rides. Barbecues. I'll take her any day over Old Man Winter.

But I remember Summer when she was at her very hottest at the VP Fair every July Fourth weekend on the Arch grounds. Live music. Fried food. Air shows. Parades. Traffic jams. Fireworks. Ooh. Aaah. Humidity so thick you felt like your face was buried in cottonballs.

Summer had Mississippi River Festivals and small-town homecomings every weekend, where you could wash down a deep-fried funnel cake with a cold draft beer from a small bucket.

Summer was a Sunday afternoon trip to the Cardinals ballgame on the Red Bird Express along State Street in East St. Louis. A bunch of kids made the trips alone. Imagine that today. A bunch of kids can't go to the Build-a-Bear stand alone.

Summer was just as much fun in the old neighborhood as she was across the river, or in a small town.

Heck, I remember Summer way back when you planned youth sports around family vacations, not vice versa.

And you played only one sport in summer -- baseball -- and there wasn't a coach, parent or umpire in sight.

Once, Summer was waking up at 7 a.m., putting on the same Batman T-shirt and cutoff jeans shorts as yesterday, sitting on the front porch, and impatiently watching the sandlot across the street for another kid to show up.

Summer always had the best backyard on the block. Three natural bare spots and a big tree for bases on our baseball diamond. Always enough neighborhood kids for a game of Indian ball or left-field ball. Morning, afternoon and night. Tripleheaders.

I remember Summer when you could play Indian ball and nobody's mom accused you of using insensitive language.

Summer was when you could judge a kid by looking at his cutoff jean shorts. If his mom cut them off, the frayed edges were perfectly even. If a kid cutoff his own pants, the frayed edges were crooked and you could see his underwear in the back.

Summer's big, sweet treat was putting Kool-Aid in the ice trays.

Summer was bike rides, backyard campouts, and watching TV before supper meant switching from Walter Cronkite to "F-Troop" when Dad left the room.

Summer was a water fight in the backyard. Whoever had the end of the hose had all the power. We drank water right out of the hose. Only kids whose moms cut off their jeans drank water from a water bottle or cup.

Summer's big adventure was spent at the Jones Park Swimming Pool in East St. Louis. Fair-skinned kids like me wore a T-shirt to avoid bad burns. The next day, it hurt to play ball because of the wicked Farmer's Tan on my neck and arms.

Summer's adventure was making a day trip to the St. Louis Zoo, which seemed like another world. We watched the old monkey show at least a couple of times, and wondered if those monkeys were really smarter than half the kids I would play ball with that evening.

Summer was climbing the old canal behind our house, and wading in the creek, and occasionally seeing a large fish, but never telling anyone because nobody would have believed me anyway.

Summer was staring at the hobos who got off the nearby freight trains and begged door-to-door in our neighborhood. We were told to stay away from the hobos, and we did. They left us alone, too, although their lifestyles fascinated us.

"How do you become a hobo?" I'd ask my mom.

"Just a lot of bad luck, I guess," she said. That always confused me. The image of riding around on trains, unbathed, wearing holey pants and begging for food seemed pretty lucky to me, at the time.

Summer was a few sparklers, smoke bombs, and firecrackers on July Fourth night, which was fun but not nearly as entertaining or loud as when neighbors burned their trash weekly. An aerosol can. KA-BOOM!

Summer was thousands of fans at American Legion baseball games, and swimming in the strip mines, and having six months of adventure to cram in between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Sure, I've lost some of my sizzle, as well, over the years.

But I miss Summer, as I once knew her, because I know she'll never be the same.

Sure, she's still hot as ever, on the outside.

But inside, well, Summer's just not the same.