The warm nights of August spoke in throbbing tones of locusts and muted train whistles. On those nights, I would watch the night push the remaining red of the day into the horizon. I could see my nemesis glowing too brightly; an intrusion on the placid scene that nature was painting. I watched with my face pressed to the window screen. The metallic smell of that screen remains weaved into the sensory fabric of my memory of those summer nights. I would kneel in my pajamas with my elbows on the window sill watching the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, the older kids; continue the evening games without me while my nemesis lighted the scene as if to taunt me further. I hated that streetlight.
The streetlight; it was a siren to moths, invader of darkness and blotter of stars. Its light marred the summer scene from my window. It brought the end to each summer day.
I tried everything. I litigated that it wasn’t on yet by pointing out that it was still flickering or was not fully bright yet. I even broke the bulb with rocks on several occasions. I looked for the cord to unplug it. Despite my best efforts, it always won. It had colleagues that shone brighter when its bulb was broken. Some nights it would hum but not flicker or, it would glow very dimly; as if to get my hopes up but then dash them with a sudden explosion of light. Some nights I would attempt to defy it by continuing to play in its light. It wouldn’t last long. Someone would always notice and say “Johnny, the streetlights on” or worse, the inevitable whistle. Every kid in the neighborhood knew my mom’s whistle. It was the really loud, two-fingers-in-the-mouth whistle that typically only men can do. You could hear it ten blocks away. I think everyone in South Toledo knew the sound of my mom’s whistle. Strangers would come out of their homes to tell me that my mom was calling and I had to go home. If I was indoors somewhere, Orris Tabner would interrupt his sportscast on channel 11 to tell me my Mom was calling me. It was legendary. My friends were so impressed with how loud my Mom could whistle. I was too; but I still dreaded hearing it.
I know I was only seven, but I was a night person. I would play kickball, kick-the-can, five dollars, chase, hide-and-seek or smear-the-queer until midnight if you let me. Every moment was precious at this time of year. The locusts and lightning bugs collaborated to remind you that it was August. Summer was ending and school was fast approaching.
Summer: Summer was the taste of rhubarb poached from a neighbor’s yard. Nobody actually liked rhubarb, it was just cool to pick something in the wild and eat it. It was sliced garden tomatoes at dinner; red Kool-Aid, a melting Bomb-Pop (the white part was my favorite). It was the distinct sound a ripe walnut made as it hit the side of a car, the ping a dodgeball made as it bounced off of someone’s face, the underwater kerthud of a well executed cannonball, and the ice cream truck’s jingle (ours was the “Do You Know the Muffin Man” song). It was the smell of a fresh evening rain on hot blacktop and of freshly cut grass; the feel of cool dirt in your hands and cool sheets on your bed; hot sand underfoot and the smooth coolness of a dive into the pool. Summer was the sight of mulberry stains on shirts, grass stains on jeans and dirt everywhere else. It was the scene of bats doing skillful airborne maneuvers as they resumed their war on bugs each night and evening shows of wheelie riding and garbage can jumping by all of us adolescent Evel Knievels.
It was also the sight of that damned streetlight; my daily reminder that it wouldn’t last forever.
I awoke this morning thinking about my grandfather, Ray. I realized that I never appreciated him fully. After all, despite not being blood related as he was my father’s step-father, he was the only grandfather on my dad’s side that I knew. I grew up with him in my life. I remember those times when Jamie and I would stay the night there. Even at a young age I was proud of him, not really sure why, when I would hear him go to work very early in the morning when it was still dark. Maybe this was my early recognition of a work ethic; as a child I was impressed that someone could get going so early in the morning.
I remember his wit. Grandma would do most of the talking, but I would watch, listen, and wait for Gramp to pitch in his quick-witted comment, usually a jibe at something grandma was talking about. Grandma usually gossiped. Gramp never judged. It seemed more important to him to get the quick snicker, not really interested in the subject of conversation. I liked that and appreciated it, even at a young age. This is the same appreciation I had for Great-Gramp Schlender and Pa. All were of few words, but when they did speak or joke, you listened intently so as not to miss anything. Their words were golden to me.
Later, as I grew older, I think I was one of few to truly appreciate Pa. Most thought he was serious when he was joking. It was a dry wit. I always sensed and understood it.
They all had one thing in common; they did not talk about themselves or brag. They were all quietly confident. They never got dramatic or shared in the gossip of others. Ironically, many of the second generation spoke highly of them but never really understood them or seemed to learn from them.
Pa was more like a celebrity to my sister and I. We were with Gramma much of the time, but Pa was usually working, golfing or at the country club. I remember jumping out of the pool at the country club when he would drop by to see Gramma and us after a golf match or on his way back to the store. It was always a highlight. At dinner, he knew what every vegetable was good for; carrots for eyesight, lima beans made you run faster, corn for super hearing- all attributes appealing to a young kid in an effort to fool us into eating them. It was much more effective than discussing free radicals, healthy prostates and osteoporosis.
My earliest memories are random and incomplete as I was probably three or four at the time of these events. We lived on Princeton Street in a brick and gray painted home next door to the Walters family and adjacent to Vassar Street. The Underwood’s lived on the corner and my cousins, Rae Ann and David, lived next next door to them on Vassar. Behind our home was the Anthony Wayne Trail, a four lane highway (busy for back then) that used to be part of the Erie Canal (my grandfather swam in it during his adolescence). The YMCA was directly across the Trail from our home.
I recall being stung by a bee while playing on a swing set in my back yard. I stepped on it while climbing and it really hurt. I remember my amazement at how so much pain could come from such a small creature. (This was my first of many bee stings) My Mom told me later that this was the only time I ever took a nap as a child. I think this was true because I recall that later in kindergarten I would pretend to sleep during nap time. I vaguely remember waking up from that nap and the house being very quiet; I think Mom and Dad were taking a nap too. Now, after being a father, I know they took a nap since parents seize these opportunities. I remember walking around the quiet house feeling very peaceful and well rested. It is one of my most peaceful moments in life; as if it was perhaps my first experience and understanding of what peace was.
I remember watching astronauts live on TV. It must have been a big deal because of how many people were watching and the intensity in which it was watched. I remember snapshot images: my pet hamster named Melvin, the Allman Brothers album cover Eat a Peach with the trucks on it. I remember Santana, our Irish setter, as a puppy and how he got his name (Santana (after Carlos) Redbone (some other 60’s band) Barber. I recall my parent’s room had a window box you could sit on and our garage had a basketball hoop and a loft. We had a carport over the driveway next to the house side-door entrance so you wouldn’t get wet. We had a white Beetle, an orange Chevy van, and a white milk truck at one time. I recall accidentally hitting the gear shift on the bug and rolling out into the street in it (however, my parents never remembered this event. Possibly, the other four-year olds from the neighborhood helped me push it back up the driveway without my parents even knowing about it? Not a very plausible theory.) I remember there was a toggle switch in that car that I was never supposed to operate or the car would explode (Dad joked of course, but I believed it.) My Uncle Ray (just a teenager at the time) used to watch us sometimes (my sister and I) while my mom and dad went out . I think he was there when Matt Walters threw the pipe that cracked my head open and gave me five stitches and my first scar. His sister Amy told him to do it. Several weeks later I threw a rock at him and gave him a black eye (his Dad told me I could have put his eye out. I responded that he could have killed me with the pipe, an eye for an eye. I think I was born a smart-ass). My cousin Rae Ann told me to throw the rock at him. Ironic.
I have fuzzy memories of being in the hospital (getting my tonsils out) and being in a crib, or bed with rails, to imprison me. It was in a large room with many other beds and was dark except for the light from the nurse’s station. I was thirsty and wanted some orange juice and remember crying for some orange juice but no one helped me. That hospital had shitty nurses. I found out later from my parents that it was Toledo Hospital, the same one I was born in. It was also the same one my son was born in. If I would have remembered how shitty the nursing staff was, he may have been born somewhere else.
