What happens in summer stays there
In the good old summertime, fond memories are made to last and last. They have for me.
That’s why I can’t imagine the institution of year-round school sessions for youngsters, regardless of how economical that might be. For, like the old-time military draft that our generation grew up with, which yielded responsible adult behaviors for most all of us guys, summer vacation is similarly a fine tradition to nurture, treasure and recall with pleasure.
Ah yes. There was that trip one summer before WWII, Dad had a great wheat crop and so we piled into his new 1939 Buick and headed to the World’s Fair in NYC. What stuck the most with me, though, wasn’t the fair, but an afternoon we spent on Broadway at a play. At least that’s what I thought it was.
What it was, was Hellzapoppin‘--that wonderful, hit musical revue starring Olsen and Johnson and Martha Raye. Full of nonstop nonsense that was part vaudeville and totally slapstick, it entranced me.
Trips, though, didn’t begin to cover the things during summer vacation we youngsters yearned the most for. How about the old swimming pool--and those daring one-piece bathing suits the girls wore, and the cannonball dives we took off the high board to splash them all.
Then there was that memorable afternoon in late summer when I first heard the fantastic news. Japan surrendered! That evening I made $37 selling extra, victory editions of the Abilene Reporter-News on the town’s busiest intersection, which was jammed with celebrating drunks. This paperboy felt rich beyond measure.
Later, luckily for me, my widower dad up and married the high school’s ace choral director, a lady this young singer had worshipped from afar. Shortly afterward when the school year ended, they departed on a six-week honeymoon, parking their veteran camper, me, for a long spell at our area’s Boy Scout camp. You should have seen the cushy hammock I fashioned to sleep in, woven from binder twine. It was the envy of everyone.
A short time later that summer, Dad had me drive a big truckload of sheep to Fort Worth at night, since they could have died in the daytime sun. That 150-mile trip was high adventure for me, since I hadn’t yet obtained my driver’s license. (Kids qualified then at age 14.). On the way back home, I was atop the world as I strolled into a late-night coffee shop off U.S. 80 at Ranger Hill and sat at the counter between two truckers.
Then into my early high-school years, I was overjoyed to be chosen to attend our football team’s two-week summer training camp in August--in hot, humid Corpus Christi on the Gulf of Mexico. Joy turned quickly to dread as we worked out in that steam bath of a place. At least everyone survived. Even the coaches resolved20never to return.
Then one summer during my college career, I attended ROTC summer camp at Fort Sill, Okla. It was neat, much cooler and drier than the Gulf Coast. Even during a driving rainstorm when we were over-nighting on maneuvers, I was able to sack out in the 2-1/2 ton Army truck I had been assigned to drive while my fellow trainees got drenched.
By far the greatest maneuver during my short Army career, however, would await my arrival, again in the middle of summer, at my first post as a new second lieutenant--at an anti-aircraft unit on the shores of Lake Michigan, in a Chicago park.
I strolled to the crowded beach the very next sunny afternoon and, having picked out the prettiest girl there, struck up a conversation. She would become my wife in six months. What a summer vacation that turned out to be. Yes, I got a lot out of my military career.
Much later, our three kids had the summer vacations our family all enjoyed the most. We went for a week at the beach--a lonely stretch on the Atlantic Ocean. Long Beach, down at the bottom of North Carolina, at the time was virtually deserted and cheap. We rented a cabin overlooking the water for $100 per week and just loafed there--then returned for two more summers. Perhaps cheap thrills can be the most fondly recalled, especially since they came during cash-strapped times.
Now, in looking through the rearview mirror, I realize those treasured summertime moments ended when our kids left home and I retired. So there’s nothing special about summers anymore. The tradeoffs, I realize, are surely worth it. Getting up before the crack of dawn to join the I-95 commuter crowd--that is easily forgotten. It’s much more gratifying awaiting my Yorkie pup Lollipop’s wake-up call, comfortably long after sunrise. Life's quiet treasures can, thank goodness, still be savored.
That’s why I can’t imagine the institution of year-round school sessions for youngsters, regardless of how economical that might be. For, like the old-time military draft that our generation grew up with, which yielded responsible adult behaviors for most all of us guys, summer vacation is similarly a fine tradition to nurture, treasure and recall with pleasure.
Ah yes. There was that trip one summer before WWII, Dad had a great wheat crop and so we piled into his new 1939 Buick and headed to the World’s Fair in NYC. What stuck the most with me, though, wasn’t the fair, but an afternoon we spent on Broadway at a play. At least that’s what I thought it was.
What it was, was Hellzapoppin‘--that wonderful, hit musical revue starring Olsen and Johnson and Martha Raye. Full of nonstop nonsense that was part vaudeville and totally slapstick, it entranced me.
Trips, though, didn’t begin to cover the things during summer vacation we youngsters yearned the most for. How about the old swimming pool--and those daring one-piece bathing suits the girls wore, and the cannonball dives we took off the high board to splash them all.
Then there was that memorable afternoon in late summer when I first heard the fantastic news. Japan surrendered! That evening I made $37 selling extra, victory editions of the Abilene Reporter-News on the town’s busiest intersection, which was jammed with celebrating drunks. This paperboy felt rich beyond measure.
Later, luckily for me, my widower dad up and married the high school’s ace choral director, a lady this young singer had worshipped from afar. Shortly afterward when the school year ended, they departed on a six-week honeymoon, parking their veteran camper, me, for a long spell at our area’s Boy Scout camp. You should have seen the cushy hammock I fashioned to sleep in, woven from binder twine. It was the envy of everyone.
A short time later that summer, Dad had me drive a big truckload of sheep to Fort Worth at night, since they could have died in the daytime sun. That 150-mile trip was high adventure for me, since I hadn’t yet obtained my driver’s license. (Kids qualified then at age 14.). On the way back home, I was atop the world as I strolled into a late-night coffee shop off U.S. 80 at Ranger Hill and sat at the counter between two truckers.
Then into my early high-school years, I was overjoyed to be chosen to attend our football team’s two-week summer training camp in August--in hot, humid Corpus Christi on the Gulf of Mexico. Joy turned quickly to dread as we worked out in that steam bath of a place. At least everyone survived. Even the coaches resolved20never to return.
Then one summer during my college career, I attended ROTC summer camp at Fort Sill, Okla. It was neat, much cooler and drier than the Gulf Coast. Even during a driving rainstorm when we were over-nighting on maneuvers, I was able to sack out in the 2-1/2 ton Army truck I had been assigned to drive while my fellow trainees got drenched.
By far the greatest maneuver during my short Army career, however, would await my arrival, again in the middle of summer, at my first post as a new second lieutenant--at an anti-aircraft unit on the shores of Lake Michigan, in a Chicago park.
I strolled to the crowded beach the very next sunny afternoon and, having picked out the prettiest girl there, struck up a conversation. She would become my wife in six months. What a summer vacation that turned out to be. Yes, I got a lot out of my military career.
Much later, our three kids had the summer vacations our family all enjoyed the most. We went for a week at the beach--a lonely stretch on the Atlantic Ocean. Long Beach, down at the bottom of North Carolina, at the time was virtually deserted and cheap. We rented a cabin overlooking the water for $100 per week and just loafed there--then returned for two more summers. Perhaps cheap thrills can be the most fondly recalled, especially since they came during cash-strapped times.
Now, in looking through the rearview mirror, I realize those treasured summertime moments ended when our kids left home and I retired. So there’s nothing special about summers anymore. The tradeoffs, I realize, are surely worth it. Getting up before the crack of dawn to join the I-95 commuter crowd--that is easily forgotten. It’s much more gratifying awaiting my Yorkie pup Lollipop’s wake-up call, comfortably long after sunrise. Life's quiet treasures can, thank goodness, still be savored.
posted by Ben Blankenship at
4:36 PM
