Innocent Summers

How did a pre-boomer child growing up in post-World War II spend the summer?

Carefree, sunny days and long noisy warm nights filled my pre-adolescent years. We lived on the near West Side of Chicago, in an Italian-American neighborhood. Our flat was down the street from a Catholic church, the center of any Italian-American neighborhood of that era. The mid-to-late ‘40s were a reliable source of almond candies, pennies, and uncooked rice. Nearly every summer Saturday hosted a wedding or two. Neighborhood kids would join the wedding celebrants as the new couple emerged from the church, hoping to glean the windfall of bridal tribute. We left the rice for the birds.

During the week, we conducted our own weddings. I can’t even guess how many times I married my cousin Joey Boy, but it was a lot. One of my favorite photographs of that time was of Joey “driving” his tricycle with the veiled bride on the trike’s back step holding on tight. I was such a lovely bride.

Wedding was not the only game we played. Marbles caromed within circles drawn in dirt parkways. We watched as older kids tossed jackknives onto a target scratched in the mud. Statue Maker, Kick the Can, Mother May I?, and Four Corners filled the afternoons and evenings. Mother, May I? is more complex than you might imagine. For those of you too young to know the game—probably 90 per cent of you—the rules are simple.

“Mother” determines who will advance toward her and who will not. The players line up horizontally on the sidewalk or street. Each in turn says “Mother, may I take (any number of giant, baby, or medium steps forward)? “Mother would say yes or no, or, she might change the orders. For example she might say, “No, you must take 2 giant steps backwards.” After every player had a turn, “mother” would briefly turn her back to the players. This was their chance to sneak up a bit so that she might not notice and send you back. A more daring player might chance a run ahead to tag “mother.” If a player was caught moving they were out. Timing and strategy were all. If you succeeded and got close enough to tag “mother,” you took her place.

We played our games just for the fun of playing and being together. If the game required a winner each of us wanted to be that player in turn. Cheating was not tolerated; play ended when you were called home.

Other summer activities included roller skating, trips to the family cottage, and, very rarely, a real vacation. I was no athlete. I “couldn’t skate.” I cried when I skinned my knee and wanted to come inside. My mother had no pity, and she yelled a lot. She sent me back out, declaring that I could not come home until I learned to skate. I learned to skate.

In the early ‘50s we had a real vacation. My brother was only 2 or 3 years old, so he was left at the family cottage. I puked my way through the flat, flat lands of Nebraska. And through the hairpin turns of Rocky Mountain roads. It was a great trip though. We saw Mount Rushmore, Old Faithful, the upper Colorado River canyons, and Pikes Peak. It snowed on the Fourth of July as the car climbed to the Peak. Once at the Peak we had blueberry pie—a first taste of a lifelong passion. There were bears in Yellowstone Park. My father, a camera nut, had to get out of the car to “get those two cute cubs on film.” Mother bear was not amused and dad had to dash back to the car where mother and I were screaming in terror.

When we reached the high desert of Wyoming I decided to empty the sand out of my shoe by opening the window and dumping it out as my father drove 70 miles an hour. Of course the shoe flew out of my hand. When my father finally stopped the car, the shoe was at least a mile or two away. He parked the car on the side of the road and walked back to find the shoe. He found it and I was in trouble for days. It made a change from motion sickness.

Summer nights were warm in the city—no fans or central air conditioning. There were no spacious lawns to cool the evening. We were very lucky to have a front yard of about two dozen square feet. This was the inner city and the ghetto started a half block east. But it was an Italian-American block and everyone was related to everyone else. Families would visit into the wee hours. Kids played in dark corners. If we were flush, a slushy Italian ice from across the street might cool a parched summer throat. As the day neared midnight calls to come home resounded on the block. In exhaustion we slept, hoping for a lake breeze and dreaming of tomorrow’s adventures.

In June of 1952 we moved to the suburbs. The first night in our new home was spent sweltering on mattresses strewn on the floor. It was so quiet. As the summer progressed we discovered fireflies and unfriendly neighbors. It took months to make a friend. Our second summer brought me my first (an only) bicycle, a 26 inch Sears boy’s bike. The bicycle was meant to last through my brother’s youth too, but I couldn’t think how I would ride it wearing my Catholic school jumper. Actually I couldn’t ride it at all. Mother said “Learn! Or walk eleven blocks to school everyday.”

A patient and kind classmate took pity on me. She taught me how to balance while riding on the back of her bicycle, holding on for dear life. I progressed to being helped to ride with her hand helping balance me. In a year I was good enough to take on Devil’s Dip in the nearby forest preserves.

Summers in the suburbs were never the same as those in the city though. Time passed. My childhood melted into adolescence as summer surprisingly becomes autumn.

Sixty-plus years have passed since Statue Maker was my delight. I took a half hour walk today. It was beautiful, warm and sunny, with a nice breeze. During my walk I encountered only two children, rollerblading while walking their dogs. It’s a rare day to see any kids playing outside. Only occasionally do the boys down the block play basketball or street hockey. Where are the girls?

It’s summer, every child’s delight, but the block is quiet. Today’s children are in day care and day camp; or inside their houses while parents work. Summer’s children are texting each other instead of talking; playing video games in an air conditioned buildings instead of working up an honest sweat playing outdoors in the fresh air.

Innocent summers are a pearl beyond price, not to be cheaply tossed aside. How sad to waste summer. Well, I’m not going to waste mine. I’m heading for the freezer to have a rock hard artificial Italian ice—after I check the sugar, sodium and calories. Mother, may I?

Summer's End

The days are growing noticeably shorter and the nights deliciously cool. In a few days the neighborhood children will return to school. Quiet resettles the block. Leaves will soon begin to reveal their startling yellows and striking reds. Tomatoes are abundant; our bounty is shared with friends and neighbors. At the end of August the season’s memories are as savory as juicy, ripe strawberries.

The plants did well, critters not withstanding. Our apples are nearly ready for the picking, i.e. if we can beat the squirrels to them. We put the glider away yesterday. We need to start to think about autumn lawn fertilizer and replacing broken rakes. The end of summer is “such sweet sorrow.”

The economy and gasoline prices kept many of us close to home this summer. Fortunately for us family members were able to visit from California. Our granddaughters experienced running through lawn sprinklers—such an experience will never be possible in dry southern California. They were introduced to Midwestern flora and fauna. The younger child can easily recognize dragonflies and Queen Anne’s lace. Fireflies will light their dreams for months. The girls appreciate the delights of playing on the dunes and swimming in the warm, calm waters of Lake Michigan. Thunder and lightening were wondrous if somewhat scary.

On our own again, we launched our own boarder excursion into Wisconsin. If it weren’t for winter, Wisconsin would be a very nice place to live. In mid-August the Milwaukee area is host to several festivals. The Irish Fest on the lakeshore was terrific. We’ve attended many over the years and this year’s was one of the best. Celtic music, dance, and foods were in abundance; the currach races intensely fought; Irish dog breeds strutted their stuff; and, transport to the fest by the express County bus the best way to get there. Port Washington, just north of Milwaukee, hosted the Maritime Festival. Several tall ships were featured. They look so very lovely in full sail on the lake! Our “Cheese Head” neighbors really know how to celebrate summer.

As we drove back home, a nagging question recurs. We are always faced with this question when returning home. Why are the free roads in Wisconsin so much better than those in Illinois, where you are charged for the ‘privilege’ of using them? Illinois offers few viable options to its toll system. The fact that the Illinois toll road was undergoing construction doesn't really temper the problem. The expensive toll roads are usually crowded and the repairs won’t last long. Yes, “Cheese Heads” are taxed at a higher rate, but they seem to do so much more with what they receive. Wisconsin road rest stops are convenient, clean, and provide the tourist with useful information. Illinois' expensive “oases” are far apart and totally commercial. I imagine our perennial summer question will not be resolved. We actually know the answer, but don’t want to face up to it on such a beautiful summer day.

Summer is at an end. We enjoyed it. Now it is time to move on.