May 28, 2015
In and Out of The Quad-Cities
The Sweet Smell of Ice Cream, Firecrackers and Grandma’s perfume
June holds some of the fondest memories of life. Somewhere deep down in the darkest recesses of our consciousness lies the joy of bidding our teacher good-bye and rushing out to embrace summer. We’re not speaking of the polite embrace reserved for the neighbor lady who managed to always have a smile and kind word. Instead, the embrace we have in mind is the one reserved for our dear old granny who seemed to be waiting patiently for us. She was on her front stoop with warm cookies just inside the screen door.
And, since we mentioned the subject of screen doors: Remember how your mom could hear the screen door swing open from a half mile away? Ours could. We would be gently creeping back into the house to grab some forgotten toy and mom would hear the microscopic squeak it generated. Suddenly from the back side of the house you’d hear, “You didn’t remember to make your bed this morning?” or “Are you planning to let every fly on the planet into the house?” Current Trophy Husband (CTH) Frank, who never gently closes any door, informed us he got the old, “If you let that screen door slam one more time, you’re going to skip desert tonight.” Taking a quick look at him today, you might surmise he never slammed the door on banana pudding night. Ah where were we? Oh, yes, early summer’s embrace.
Summer meant hanging out on the back porch with marathon Monopoly Games, playing made up games with the kids down the road. For Gail, summer marked the beginning of adventure. Kids dressed in their summer Keds explored the vacant field next to the neighborhood. It seems the big game of the 1950’s Oklahoma of her misspent youth, included the capture of horny toads and an occasional tarantula. Someone from the neighborhood gang would see the tarantula, then they would sound the alarm. Like Paul Revere’s Minute Men of old, the kids would come running.
Swirling deeper into June memories, we see flashes of the great family reunion. At the time, we thought that the whole thing happened instinctually, like the swallows and Capistrano. We would get into the family car assuming our normal seat-belt free positions, with only minor squabbles about who got to sit by the window. Mom loaded up the big picnic basket full of deviled eggs, (being a good church going family, we always wondered about the name, but that is another story) plastic cups, the old silverware and prehistoric plates reserved for such occasions. Dad tossed in two lawn chairs, because everyone knew children were to be “seen and not heard,” but they were not to be seen sitting on a lawn chair. In went the old metal-sided cooler full of ice and a dessert casserole. And we launched off.
The family reunion typically featured cousins, uncles, aunts and more ants. Regardless of the weather the week or two before, family reunions were unbelievably hot. The elders of our kinfolk, sat in the shade alternating between fanning themselves and shooing flies. As our car pulled into the gathering, the young adult members of the clan started moseying over to the car. The kids came running up like they were on high-powered motor cycles with the throttle cranked full on. Jumping out of the car, we were ready to go running off but first had to pay homage to elderly aunts and get a little loving from dear sweet granny. Once covered with kisses and the smell of “old lady” perfume, we blasted off with the rest of the kids.
Before we sail off from our recollections of the family reunion, allow us to say three words: Homemade ice cream. No matter how full, no matter how great the games, that sugary sweet dairy concoction always called our name. We challenge you. Listen closely the next time you see someone cranking a mixer of this stuff. Tone out the sounds of kids playing, zone out the sound of grownup chatter, cut past the car noise in the background. Every turn of the crank emits a low-pitched sound. Listen closely, you will hear it say, “crrrGail and tutuToni.” You might even hear your own name whispered like the Sirens sweetly singing. Trust us, it happens.
Somewhere along the road returning from the family reunion, we’d see the magic of gaudily covered paper and scrap wood buildings heralding fireworks. The graphics were intense. The call to action was impossible to ignore. The din of begging from the back seat was most likely unbearable for our parental units. We would love to tell you we always ended up with a big old bag of Black Cats, mostly it depended on the day. We did get a pack of lady fingers, often enough to risk life and limb. Do you remember the adrenaline rush of your first firecracker? Do remember the ever-present story of the little girl down the road who somehow managed to get a bottle rocket down her blouse? Is this a summer memory or what?
Zooming back to the present. Summer, oh sweet summer. Welcome to the Quad-Cities.
