July 5, 2008

• What is it about summer that causes one to reminisce about the summers gone away? I think it is because we, in truth, do not really grow old in spirit. Yes this lousy stuff hanging on my bones says otherwise, but the me within, the part held captive by the corporal, is as young and free and joyful as it ever was. So it is less the yearning for youth and more the continuance of youth that my memories celebrate.  Face it, because you know it’s true, we don’t climb trees anymore because the body refuses to cooperate, not that we don’t want to. Given a fair chance, I would still be hiding in Uncle’s Apple Orchard, swinging from the branches and pelting Sisters Two and Three with homegrown “stones”.  (Forgive me Uncle…) So my spirit still roams Uncle’s orchard now grown wild but still fresh and green and carefully sculpted harboring the secret of a hundred Thanksgivings pies if only in the minds of three silly little girls.

  It was probably the summer just before I entered high school, that Sister Two and I convinced my father to take we two and three other of our friends on a “girls only” picnic. This was a miracle of the most majestic kind for us. I still experience a thrill every time I think of this. I was raised in a growing family. My mother was, for many years, in a perpetual state of pregnancy or engaged in the aftermath of pregnancy.  In this both father and mother were well pleased. Me, not so much. It was still the age of cloth diapers (Pampers, oh pampers, where wert thou). Dad being the perpetrator of Mom’s continuously inflated state had thus obligated himself to the support of the result of his dalliances. So, it can be no surprise that pop always had a minimum of two jobs, usually three. Most of these consisted of the jack of all trades variety of which the demand was undeniably greatest during the short summer ‘fix it’ window of opportunity.  But he agreed to take a day off, a whole day off, to cart five 12 – 14 year olds to a special ‘paid’ beach. He was going to cook for us, too. The only catch was that we had to earn all the money involved to finance this wondrous event. Money? Drat! The time frame for the procurement of such funds was pitifully short. This called for drastic and immediate action. Not one of us in our socio-economic group was privy to any type of independent income. Allowances were unheard of. You did your chores because it was your duty and contribution to the welfare and upkeep of the family.

  The dilemma was profound. Pilfering was out of the question; any older siblings were well on to us and had long since expertly secured their cash.  I didn’t even want to imagine the consequences of a midnight visit to mom’s purse. The woman had eyes everywhere and was hell on wheels when angry. This little 4’ 11”, 110 pound woman was the size of a VW with the wallop of a Mack truck. Pilfering from mom was a last chance scenario attempt when all else failed.  

  The solution… collect then turn in old newspapers and such to the local paper processing plant for cash on the spot. Dad was even willing to transport us to the weighing station once a week. Yeah.  These do not exist anymore. Recycling has made paper collecting totally worthless as a fund raising project but in those days it could garner pocket change or more for the more industrious group.

  We started out by ringing the door bells of our neighbors. Everyone saved everything in my neighborhood. We knew that Bobchi, Pani and Chachi had houses full of stuff. At first we were mildly successful. We needed better results if our trip was going to happen this year. Then we hit upon a plan. After all when you fail to plan, you plan to fail. Who knew anything about entrepreneurs and business plans? We didn’t but our conniving barely teen minds instinctively knew what to do.

  ·         Dress down, (no makeup or big girl clothes)

  ·         Sad story, (it’s to be our only summer vacation.. one day… how sad)

  ·         Big eyes, (tilt the head a bit… eyes glistening or a bit teary was best)

  ·         Speak the lingo (preferably Polish then)

  Then armed with a little red wagon (beat up) and a Polish speaking friend as interpreter, we hit the streets again. Bingo. Stacks of papers started piling up in our corner of the carport. Great! Off to the paper mill. Dad, our banker under protest, (our’s not his) pocketed the booty and we hit the streets again. It wasn’t long before we had pretty much outstripped supply with our demand. This was not good. The problem with paper is that you only get one a day. We needed more! I think people started to hide whenever they saw the newsprint junkies rolling down the street.

  We finally did meet our goal and had a magical day at the lake. Dad even put the top down on the old Green Hornet. We had hotdogs in real buns, canned soda, chips and grapes. We went to a beach called Maple Grove where you actually had to pay for admittance which means we had the joy of playing on a silky sand beach and not muck and rocks. I remember it rained at day’s end. The rainbow was beautiful. It was the last event I remember of what I consider my childhood. It became a lasting tribute in my mind to the simplicity of an age, a turning point of no return. Once I entered high school that fall, although still young enough to be called a child (I was precocious, what can I say) I no longer considered myself childish.

  In the end we did have to resort to pilfering. Not an easy admission but true. No, I did not risk the wrath of mom. Me and my innocent friends actually crossed the creek behind the paper mill, stuck our arms thru the roll ends left from the processing of the newsprint rolls, and dragged them home. Tucked discretely into the box bottoms and carefully concealed under the legitimate article we resold the mill’s paper back to them. We met our goal easily and quickly. Who knew that those rolled ends could be so heavy? I wonder if Dad or the mill men ever suspected the source of our bounty.

  I wonder?

  • 2:35 PM
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