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My summertime composition |
This
is the essay no teacher ever assigned.
“What I
didn’t do on my summer vacation.”
It hasn’t, after all, been the typical
summer.
That, especially
in the case of this out-of-shape middle-aged person, precludes leisurely bike
rides
after
dinner.
So, I haven’t
smelled the honeysuckle along the roadside or watched countless homeowners
prune,
mow and
otherwise manicure their lawns.
It’s also rained
a lot.
That means I’ve
spent more time than I care to on my lawn, such as it is.
My weeds, I should
clarify.
They grow in
proverbial fashion, keeping Howard and me up to our kneecaps in them, fighting
for
time to mow them down for even a day or two.
We’ve been
very busy here at the office.
There were days, I
dimly remember, when summer slow time meant early quitting hours and
occasional day trips to nearby places.
This year, I meant to take my daughter Erica
to the Statue of Liberty, Ocean City, Maryland,
the
shopping outlets around Reading, PA and perhaps on a long weekend to Boston.
We never got to
any of the above.
Of course, I
remind myself constantly, summer is only half over.
There’s still
the rest of July and all of August to go.
Summer never flew
by like it does now.
I can remember the dim past, when it seemed
like summer boredom would never end.
Being a kid,
without transportation except the parent-provided type, is tough in summertime.
In this area,
particularly, public transportation is sporadic and doesn’t get one to the
most desired
of
places.
It makes for long
days, when all a teenager can do is household chores and endless telephoning.
Too young for an
outside job; too old for playing in the park with friends.
In the good old
days, summers were for reading.
My library card was dog-eared and my
collection of paperbacks grew by leaps and bounds
(as my
allowance shrunk) between June and September.
I’ve read a
total of two books so far this summer … sandwiched in between bouts of sunning
on the
beach and relaxing before bedtime.
Summer used to mean “the lake.”
Growing up in Egg
Harbor in the ‘50s meant spending every afternoon there.
We congregated at the water tower on
Philadelphia Avenue at 12:30, sitting on our towels on
the
stone wall that lined the walk, waiting for the bus.
It was municipally
operated, and for a pittance (the exact price escapes me after all these years)
we
could ride, round trip, the three miles to Egg Harbor Lake.
It was an ideal
recreation site.
We met our
friends, bought hot dogs and soda, swam out to the raft for sunning and
generally
enjoyed
being lazy.
At four o’clock,
we climbed on board the bus again for the return trip.
Occasionally, in those
polio-scare days, the lake would close for a few days toward the end
of
summer because of lack of rain to cleanse it, but most of the time it was our
salvation.
I
don’t know how much the operation of that bus cost the city.
I’m sure my
parents and countless others were grateful that we had a place to go that
didn’t
require
their supervision or their time to get us there.
Nowadays,
there’s be countless reasons why towns couldn’t provide a bus like that …
vandalism,
insurance costs, etc., etc. …
Too bad.
Kids who can’t get to the shore or don’t
have the good fortune to have backyard pools
would
doubtless benefit from a “lake” experience like the one we enjoyed.
At least they’d have something to write in
their “What I did on my summer vacation” composition!
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