June 1, 2025
Just Saying…
Reliving the Junes of Days Past
By Q.C. Jones
I don’t know about you, but for your pal QC Jones, June has always marked the official launch of summer. It didn’t sneak in with a whisper or tiptoe like spring. No, sir, June barged in like a sunburned uncle with a boombox and no interest in staying quiet.
Looking back, I’ve come to realize that the Junes of my youth burned their way into my memory with the same intensity as the cracked vinyl seats in Dad’s truck. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is simple: June meant the start of three months of freedom. Capital-F Freedom.
For us kids, summer wasn’t just a break from school. It was the Great Expedition. We disappeared each day after lunch like a magician’s rabbit—off to forests, creeks, and adventures that were part Huckleberry Finn, part homemade war movie. My stomping grounds included a lake, a creek that sometimes called itself a river, and enough open farmland to wear out a good pair of Keds.
We had chores, of course. You weeded the garden, cleaned the kitchen, but once you hit “done,” that was it. You were gone. You came home when the sun started getting low or when your stomach started chewing on your backbone.
I’ve had conversations with enough fellow travelers to know that my experience wasn’t unique. Boys across the country and maybe Canada spent summers the same way. But let me be clear: The girls had their own version of summer. My three sisters didn’t dig bunkers or play war, but they had their dolls, their secrets, and doses of The Patty Duke Show.
Oh yes, Patty Duke, TV’s twin tornado of teen angst and charm. My sisters never missed an episode. Patty played both Patty and Cathy, two identical cousins, which I thought was a little weird.
Meanwhile, we boys weren’t about to be caught watching teenage girls swap boyfriends and solve dilemmas. No sir, we were locked in with “Combat!” and “Twelve O’Clock High.” These were war shows. Loud, gritty, and full of explosions. Just what a growing boy needed to get his imagination moving.
And we didn’t just watch. We re-enacted. We staged battles so real that Steven Spielberg would’ve taken notes. One summer, we built a full-on bunker. I mean, a real hole in the ground, lined with scrap wood, covered with cardboard, and packed with enough dirt to qualify as its own ZIP code.
The rules were simple. Two Americans (usually me and my buddy David, playing Vic Morrow and Some Other Guy) would climb into the bunker. Then the rest of the neighborhood became “the Jerrys” our version of German soldiers who would start lobbing dirt clods and mud bombs at us. These weren’t just random clumps of yard debris. No, these were hand-crafted, artisan-grade mudballs, mixed to the perfect density using just the right amount of creek water and mean-spiritedness.
Eventually, the bunker would “collapse,” or someone would catch a mudball to the head, and that’s when the real fun began: the counterattack. Flying dirt, yells, sometimes the kind of scuffle that ended with someone limping home and swearing they weren’t crying. “It’s just sweat.”
Now, before you go shaking your head and calling me a little barbarian, let me assure you: I had peaceful pastimes, too. Chief among them? Baseball.
That same summer, I played on a Little League team sponsored by the Tasty-Treat, our town’s most sacred provider of frozen sugar. I wasn’t a starter. I wasn’t even a good sub. I was tall, gangly, and had the grace of a moose on a wet tile floor. But I had heart, and more importantly, I had a uniform.
Our team was average on a good day. But the best part was what happened after the games. If we won, we could order anything from the Tasty-Treat menu. Banana splits, triple-scoop sundaes, malts so thick they could anchor a boat. If we lost (which we did often), we would get a small vanilla cone. Win or lose, it was heaven. (Thanks, Mr. Gilpin)
Of course, while I bumbled around right field for Tasty-Treat, my real baseball heart belonged to the New York Yankees. Mantle and Maris, Whitey Ford on the mound—it was like watching myth in motion. But the best part wasn’t the games themselves. It was watching them with my grandpa. Sitting there, the two of us, no distractions, just the game, and an occasional word of wisdom from a man who knew Santa Claus personally.
But that Santa Claus thing, dear readers, is a tale for another day. Maybe for a colder season.
Just saying… QC Jones
