The boy(s) of summer

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day …

I normally woke up sweaty. Around 1958 on Pine Hollow Road in Stowe, I generally woke up sweaty in the summer. We had no air conditioning. Nobody had any air conditioning. What you did was open two windows and hope for a cross breeze.

I’d roll out of bed, say hi to Mom, and eat a bowl or two of Cheerios. Dad was already at work. Mom’d say, “Ok, go upstairs, wash your face, brush your teeth, and then we’ll get to work.”

Chore time. Mine were regularly, “Redd up the living room and dust the downstairs.” Doesn’t sound like much, but there was a

of dust on everything. The Pittsburgh area air in ‘58, with all the screened windows open for the breeze, could lay some serious dust on you! I became a wizard with dustrags and Pledge. Lemony fresh! My real talent, however, lay in the hunt. My mother hated flies. Hated them. And they always got in.

“Here, take this swatter and kill those flies.” I was a true savant. I could not only cream the little buggers, but better, I could find them. I was finely attuned to the motions of Rub your little legs together and it was your last move. Bang!

Then I got to go outside. First, because I loved the outdoors and, second, because Mom would say, “Find something to do or I’ll find something for you.” I’d go see what Johnny Po and Richie were doing. We’d mess around … walk through the woods, pick blackberries, talk about the Pirates, build a fort or not build a fort, whatever. If it rained, we’d be inside playing board games. Monopoly was a biggie. And it was written into the covenants of my Italian neighborhood that whichever house you were in around lunchtime, that mother was obligated to feed you. No questioning it; settled law. Dinner was different. You had to go home for dinner and were summoned by the assembled moms standing at their opened front doors screaming your names. “Ri-chard, din-nn-ner!!”

In the afternoon we’d go to The Field (a vacant lot close by) and play baseball, or “hit some out,” or just play catch. We played everything in The Field, except one thing. The practice was established long before I came on the scene that Wiffle Ball must be played on the street. The fact that Pine Hollow Road saw a steady stream of cars made no difference. Home plate was in front of my house, pitcher’s “mound” in front of Martino’s. Any grounder past the pitcher was a single, a fly past Caputo’s walk a double, past Artuso’s walk a triple, and if you really caught hold of one and made it past the telephone pole by Pohaski’s then touch ‘em all.

We dodged cars for six years until we grew up and stopped playing. The only minor problem was the high popup. If someone lifted one and a car was coming, you could either hang in there and make the catch, and risk being run over, or let the ball drop. But we all knew the important thing was to get the out.

After dinner, The Big Kids would be back from their summer jobs and then The Field was home to softball. We all played. It was great. Then when it got too dark to see the ball, the game ended and Johnny Po, Richie and I would goof around. Lie on the grass, catch lightning bugs, talk and laugh, just be pals.

But the grim reapers of any kid’s day were … the streetlights. You had 90 seconds after the streetlights came on to be back in your house. And don’t argue.

Childhood was different then. “Free-range parenting” was the norm. We all survived.

And then I’d play some cards with Dad, we loved cribbage, and eventually I’d hear, “My goodness, how did you get so dirty? Go upstairs and take a bath, and wash out the tub. Others have to use it, you know.”

I’d climb into bed, glad for the nights when it wasn’t raining so I could leave the window open. The breeze would billow the drapes, and for a few minutes I liked to watch the headlights of the approaching cars paint the wall to my left, and then the one on front of me, and then circle part of the right one and disappear. Nice.

And then to sleep.