The weather's turned cold again. The last blast before the
warmth of spring and the heat of summer rush in on us back to back in April.
Summer is the major season down here with its heat and humidity.
We used to fight back by spending time at the beach--Folly beach--on the sand and in the waves. The wind blowing in over the ocean kept us cool until we arrived back home and sported 1st degree burns over every area of skin except that covered with swim wear. Then the heat was a burden to bear inside as well as outside. This may be true but as children we only noticed it when we wanted sympathy or ice cream from the mobile vendor whose jingle perked our ears though he might have been a mile away.
"Please! We gotta have a nickel! The ice cream truck's coming!" And we'd get our nickel and run to the edge of the road waiting impatiently for that small white dot down the road to emerge at our feet as the Popsicle man on 4 wheels. When he stopped every kid from the local vicinity would beat feet to the sliding window. Inside was a man with a three day growth of beard and cigarette dangling from his mouth handing out ice creams and collecting nickels and dimes from chubby little fingers extended up to him. Smiling faces on tiptoe happy to start ripping into the paper surrounding the glorious chocolate covered ice cream on a stick. Happier still to shove that big cold treat into mouths filled with cavity prone teeth, but who cared. This was child heaven.
Every one of us would wander off to our respected front porches, climb into the swings, and slurp happily on melting ice cream bars. The swing would ease back and forth passing our little shirtless bodies through cooling breeze. That sticky oozing hot ice cream we were unable to eat before melting would run down our arms and faces and onto our shorts. Drips would accumulate on bare legs and dirty feet. Yup, a child's heaven.
When all we had was a stick and sticky bodies covered with dried rivulets of clotted milk and dirt we'd begin to swing in earnest. The swing would reach to the sky, or at least the ceiling with a loud bang. Usually at this point someone's mother would rush to the front door and warn us to swing a little less exuberantly. Who listens? Within minutes the ceiling bump would bring the parent once more on the scene with demands that we get out of the swing and go play in the yard. Once we went for a third bang on the ceiling but were stopped abruptly by the screws snapping from the ceiling of the porch and the swing sailing out over the rails and into the yard five feet below. That time it was the screams that brought the parent to the door. No one was hurt so we got no sympathy only an I-told-you-to-out-and-play-in-the-yard speech. Then, as we scattered, a frowning look as the parent viewed the damage and calculated the trouble and cost to fix it. Not a kid's worry though. We took off in all directions ready for the next adventure.
In the heat of summer we used to hike down the road, pails in hand, with our older relatives--cousins--to the local briar patch which just happened to be full of ripe, juicy blackberries. Our little mouths would be drenched in blackberry juice, our stomachs distended with those squishy berries and our pails filled to the brim. We'd walk back to the house excited about the blackberry pies in our immediate future or blackberries and cream the next evening. The days were long and leisurely with plenty of time for all the activities we could dream up and we did.
The garage at the side of our house had a slanting sheet of tar covered metal that made a 45 degree angle with the roof. "Don't be climbing up on the garage roof, now, you children." we heard this every day. As soon as we were out of sight we'd plant our little shoeless feet at the bottom of this steep incline, grab the side with our hands and ease our way up to the roof. With each trip up we'd carry a load of pine cones and deposit them behind the board at the front of the garage that came up 3 feet from the roof floor. We'd make several trips until we stock piled enough, then we'd shout out our challenge to any passing kid.
"Come on! We'll stand you off and beat you in a game of war!" would be our cry. "Beat us if you can!"
The challenge would be answered with a flurry of pine cones sailing up into our faces. Each one would be blocked by the trash can lids we held in our left hands as shields. We were knights of the round table defending the high ground from the black knight and his minion. Our cloud of cones would sail with the added strength of gravity--we were kids whatted we know?--right onto the top of the enemy's pointed heads and garbage can shields. Thunk! Thunk-thunk-thunk! Oww! Pine cones hurt with their pointed barbs and at times made contact with exposed skin. The battle would last until our pile was exhausted. We'd holler "Finished!" and make our way down to the ground to run off to the local mound of dirt to finish the battle in a game of King of the Hill.
Summer, here, was just as hot before air conditioning, but we never noticed it. The heat was just part of life. We escaped it any way we could. As kids we escaped through our imaginations into make believe lands and constant motion. It was our friend because it hailed the end of school for the months of June, July and August. We were free from "jail" to learn life's lessons on our own terms. We were happy and we showed it.
We used to fight back by spending time at the beach--Folly beach--on the sand and in the waves. The wind blowing in over the ocean kept us cool until we arrived back home and sported 1st degree burns over every area of skin except that covered with swim wear. Then the heat was a burden to bear inside as well as outside. This may be true but as children we only noticed it when we wanted sympathy or ice cream from the mobile vendor whose jingle perked our ears though he might have been a mile away.
"Please! We gotta have a nickel! The ice cream truck's coming!" And we'd get our nickel and run to the edge of the road waiting impatiently for that small white dot down the road to emerge at our feet as the Popsicle man on 4 wheels. When he stopped every kid from the local vicinity would beat feet to the sliding window. Inside was a man with a three day growth of beard and cigarette dangling from his mouth handing out ice creams and collecting nickels and dimes from chubby little fingers extended up to him. Smiling faces on tiptoe happy to start ripping into the paper surrounding the glorious chocolate covered ice cream on a stick. Happier still to shove that big cold treat into mouths filled with cavity prone teeth, but who cared. This was child heaven.
Every one of us would wander off to our respected front porches, climb into the swings, and slurp happily on melting ice cream bars. The swing would ease back and forth passing our little shirtless bodies through cooling breeze. That sticky oozing hot ice cream we were unable to eat before melting would run down our arms and faces and onto our shorts. Drips would accumulate on bare legs and dirty feet. Yup, a child's heaven.
When all we had was a stick and sticky bodies covered with dried rivulets of clotted milk and dirt we'd begin to swing in earnest. The swing would reach to the sky, or at least the ceiling with a loud bang. Usually at this point someone's mother would rush to the front door and warn us to swing a little less exuberantly. Who listens? Within minutes the ceiling bump would bring the parent once more on the scene with demands that we get out of the swing and go play in the yard. Once we went for a third bang on the ceiling but were stopped abruptly by the screws snapping from the ceiling of the porch and the swing sailing out over the rails and into the yard five feet below. That time it was the screams that brought the parent to the door. No one was hurt so we got no sympathy only an I-told-you-to-out-and-play-in-the-yard speech. Then, as we scattered, a frowning look as the parent viewed the damage and calculated the trouble and cost to fix it. Not a kid's worry though. We took off in all directions ready for the next adventure.
In the heat of summer we used to hike down the road, pails in hand, with our older relatives--cousins--to the local briar patch which just happened to be full of ripe, juicy blackberries. Our little mouths would be drenched in blackberry juice, our stomachs distended with those squishy berries and our pails filled to the brim. We'd walk back to the house excited about the blackberry pies in our immediate future or blackberries and cream the next evening. The days were long and leisurely with plenty of time for all the activities we could dream up and we did.
The garage at the side of our house had a slanting sheet of tar covered metal that made a 45 degree angle with the roof. "Don't be climbing up on the garage roof, now, you children." we heard this every day. As soon as we were out of sight we'd plant our little shoeless feet at the bottom of this steep incline, grab the side with our hands and ease our way up to the roof. With each trip up we'd carry a load of pine cones and deposit them behind the board at the front of the garage that came up 3 feet from the roof floor. We'd make several trips until we stock piled enough, then we'd shout out our challenge to any passing kid.
"Come on! We'll stand you off and beat you in a game of war!" would be our cry. "Beat us if you can!"
The challenge would be answered with a flurry of pine cones sailing up into our faces. Each one would be blocked by the trash can lids we held in our left hands as shields. We were knights of the round table defending the high ground from the black knight and his minion. Our cloud of cones would sail with the added strength of gravity--we were kids whatted we know?--right onto the top of the enemy's pointed heads and garbage can shields. Thunk! Thunk-thunk-thunk! Oww! Pine cones hurt with their pointed barbs and at times made contact with exposed skin. The battle would last until our pile was exhausted. We'd holler "Finished!" and make our way down to the ground to run off to the local mound of dirt to finish the battle in a game of King of the Hill.
Summer, here, was just as hot before air conditioning, but we never noticed it. The heat was just part of life. We escaped it any way we could. As kids we escaped through our imaginations into make believe lands and constant motion. It was our friend because it hailed the end of school for the months of June, July and August. We were free from "jail" to learn life's lessons on our own terms. We were happy and we showed it.
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