“July is not only a season of the year; it is a season of mind and memory. Hot days and sultry nights and crashing thunderstorms are a part of July, and to the drone of bees in clover fields will soon be added the high-pitched sibilance of the cicada. The tang of ripe cherries and the sweetness of sunning hay belong to July … ” Hal Borland
It used to get fearsomely hot in Kansas in July, the sun burning patterns on bare feet as we dashed across the red brick streets, then up the sidewalks, dodging cracks … “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back.”
Lawn sprinklers became ocean waves in our imaginations as we donned our swimsuits and pretended we were swimming for our lives. Green lawns turned to mud puddles after an afternoon of dragging around the garden hose squirting each other.
Some days, the air felt like a wool blanket of steam wrapped around the sky. We could hardly breathe. Our shoulders turned firecracker red, then blistered, then we peeled like snakes losing their skin.
Growing up without air conditioning made us creative. We sucked on ice cubes or popsicles made of Kool-Aid. Windows were closed early in the morning, shades pulled down to filter out the red-hot summer sunbeams.
We rode our bikes, pedaling from the blazing sun to cool maple-tree shadows. Stopping long enough for a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, warm Dr. Pepper, soggy picnic pickles. During the summer we were let loose to play all around town.
Bikes took us everywhere. To the municipal pool where season tickets meant we could swim anytime day or night all summer long. We took every swim class offered, advancing from minnow to whale.
Holding our noses, closing our eyes, we squealed and jumped from the high diving board with a splat. Everyone we knew was a senior lifesaver by the time they were in high school. It was part of our summer ritual.
The Fourth of July meant we were halfway through summer vacation. It was the highlight of the season, our Christmas in July. Summer seemed so brief, every day packed with outdoor activities.
Our Fourth of July meant hot dogs stuck on a green stick cut to a point with Dad’s pocketknife. We roasted our wienies over a wood fire until they turned black and crinkled with wrinkles just made for ketchup and mustard. We nestled them into buns tasting of smoke.
There would be potato chips for the children and potato salad for the adults. Nobody we knew ever got sick eating the salad slathered with mayonnaise after resting on picnic tables all afternoon.
Dad was always in charge of the ice cream freezer, Mom in charge of the ice cream. Homemade ice cream churned from blocks of ice crushed by hammers in gunnysacks and then layered with gray rock salt in wooden freezers could be found in every garage in town.
The ice cream was made with raw eggs and Watkins vanilla, eaten with saltines to chase away the piercing headaches numbing our foreheads as we licked the dasher and our spoons.
Fourth of July. Always a day of bright baby blue sky. Always a parade, followed by a picnic that went on and on until someone suggested a softball game. Soft blankets were spread over prickly grass holding babies and grandmothers. Finishing off the day, a glory blaze of fireworks exploding over our heads and then lingering in our dreams. God bless America! And we did …
