50+ Lifestyles

Just Saying…

By Q.C. Jones

The Glories of Summer…

Nothing beats summer time in the Cities. In our case, we’re talking summer time in the Quad-Cities. Even at my advanced age, summer still brings back those long time memories of days hanging out with my family and friends.  No school, no homework, no teacher pitching perfect cursive on lined yellow paper. Ah, life was good. And, time took a slow journey from dawn to dusk. I caught myself daydreaming of those good old days and reminiscing about summer days long past.

I would like to invite you to join me as I take a walk down my twisted path of half-remembered summers. Along the way, we’ll explore a side path or two. If you let your imagination roll and add a little “flavoring” to your coffee, you might scamper down a transcendent trail lingering in some lost consciousness. Grab your sombrero and slip into some sneakers, this is going to be an adventure.

True confessions, I have never actually stolen a watermelon. But repurposing Peanut Farmer and President Jimmy Carter’s words from a 1976 Playboy Magazine interview, “I have lusted in my heart…” It’s my guess, others share this sin.  Earlier today, I had the pleasure of listening to an old Tennessee Ernie Ford song called, “Watermelons hanging on the vine.” The song dates back over a hundred years, and goes something like this:

    See that watermelon a’hanging on the fence.

How I wish that melon was mine.

Some folks are foolish, the just don’t have no sense.

Or they wouldn’t leave that melon on the vine.

The song goes on to justify stealing said melon and running off for a very personal watermelon feed.  Now here’s a point to ponder. Does the long ago popularity of this song imply that our grandparents were melon mobsters? Either way, I love watermelon fresh from the vine. Muscatine, here I come.

Sticking with mouthwatering memories, let me share another. My family was the proud owner of an ice cream machine. You know the kind; big redwood bucket, metal cylinder, cast iron hand crank and capacity to produce a gallon and a half of creamy dairy treat. For some reason, nobody was lactose intolerant back in those hot days of
summer. I grew up in a large extended family, five kids, grandparents, and cousins in the vicinity. We were the “popular kids” because of our family’s extensive holdings: an ice cream machine and a large homemade barbeque pit.

My dad’s specialty was a mix of orange soda, Eagle Brand and milk.  And, like everything back in those days, you had to work hard to get your humble reward.  The ritual was like this.  Ice was purchased in a big 50 pound block down at the ice house. If we were lucky, the icehouse guy would let us go inside and see blocks of ice stacked to the ceiling. It was a shock to my eight year old system; something like 100 degrees to minus 10 in five steps. Then a beeline back to the homestead.

The kids got to turn the crank until their arms got tired (or boredom set in), then the men would turn the crank for the remaining half hour. After what seemed like a sweaty eternity, the ice cream was finally ready. My mom brought out a pile of 1950s style plastic bowls, spoons and a huge stack of the paper towels we called napkins.  We attacked that treat like hungry piranhas. To this day, I still haven’t figured out how she got the orange color out of our clothes.

Lest you assume all of my memories are food-inspired (many are), let me rattle off a few other side-paths to the summer journey.

Firecrackers, it’s a wonder I have all my fingers and toes.  Back in the day, five, six and seven year old kids were allowed their own stash of ladyfinger explosives. We spent much of the month of July stealing kitchen matches and blowing up ant hills, toy soldiers, tin cans and anything else we could find.  With the possible exception of the one that went down the back of neighbor girl’s blouse, we did all this without long term injury.

We lived an air conditioner free lifestyle. Way back when, I can’t remember a single family in our neighborhood that had crisp cool air flowing through their house. And, we lived on the Texas Coast back then. It was hot and humid, but encouraged lots of time outside. When we finally did get A/C, it only cooled one room.  On the hottest nights, our whole family slept on pallets on the floor and talked about the good life we were living.

Cruising on down to the drive-in was big. Mom, dad and five kids headed to the drive-in on dollar night. For reasons unknown, the local drive-in theatre offered a special deal on the hottest days of summer. You could load a lumbering albatross of a car (ours was a 1959 Ford Ranch Wagon) with as many people as the vehicle’s suspension could stand and get the whole gang into the place for one American Dollar. By the way, we brought along two giant grocery bags full of popcorn, a two gallon thermos full of Kool-Aid and cookies from my Grandma. God Bless the Blue Grass and Maquoketa Drive-Ins.

Picnics were the “in thing.” Remember when I said mouthwatering memories weren’t my only tie to summers?  Maybe I was lying. We had picnics – often. I wouldn’t be the “full grown” man I am today if my grandma would have bought a smaller picnic basket.
Just saying….