Today summer lasts for 12 weeks; I can see its beginning and end. But when I was nine years old, lasted for months or years, or never ended: somewhere it's still that childhood summer, an endless succession of days, all bright green and dazzling.
A week in Indiana, visiting my parents' family.
A week camping in Minnesota and Canada.
Nazarene summer camp.
Swimming lessons at Longview Park Pool.
Dark Shadows. H.R. Pufnstuf. Tarzan Theater.
Posters of teen idols.
All on a golden afternoon, probably a Saturday in July, in my Grandma's farmhouse in northern Indiana. It's a big house, white frame. The living room is pink, with flowered wall paper and thick drapes.
My brother and I are alone. I don't remember why. Maybe Mom and Dad have gone off somewhere, on an expedition of their own, leaving Grandma Davis to babysit, and she has stepped out.
We have just come in from something or other -- puttering around in the apple orchard, playing fetch with the dogs next door, exploring the old barn where Grandpa used to milk cows. We kick off our shoes at the door.
At our house the tv is almost always on, whether anyone is watchng or not, a stable, comforting background noise. But Grandma keeps it off unless someone wants to watch a specific program. It seems unnatural, wrong somehow.
I reach down and turn it on.
Kenny asks "What do you want to watch?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe Tarzan Theater." On Saturday afternoons in Rock Island, when there isn't a game on, you can see old Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy movies.
The black and white screen flickers, and then pops on. A game.
I turn it to the next channel. Some people talking.
"Find some cartoons," Kenny suggests.
There are only three channels, so only three choices. I turn to the third.
A naked man.
In my memory he's naked, although he was probably wearing a leotard. Shirtless, though, with taut hard pecs and very thick hard biceps.
You never saw naked or even shirtless men on tv in those days, except in Tarzan movies, so I stand dumbstruck, frozen in place, realizing that I will remember this moment forever.
"What's this?" Kenny asks.
The naked man twirls and high-steps, bulging his bare calves, across a bare stage to a young blond woman. Then, dancing a sort of tap dance, he asks "Who....are...youuuuuu?"
She starts a tap dance of her own, dances in front of him, and says "I....don't...know. Who...are...youuuuu?"
He stops dancing and glowers at her, his eyes dark, and replies. "I am the Magic Mushroom."
At that moment, Grandma appears at the window leading to the kitchen. "There's nothing for kids on now," she says. "Turn the tv off."
"Wait...I..." I begin. But Kenny obligingly turns it off.
"Now who wants to help me bake a pie for dinner tonight?"
All in a golden afternoon.
The bookmobile every Tuesday.
The Denkmann School Carnival.
Malts at Country Style.
Vacation Bible School
Gold Key comic books at Schneider's Drug Store.
Dark Shadows. H.R. Pufnstuf. Tarzan Theater.
Posters of teen idols.
And the Naked Man's Question:
My brother and I are alone. I don't remember why. Maybe Mom and Dad have gone off somewhere, on an expedition of their own, leaving Grandma Davis to babysit, and she has stepped out.
We have just come in from something or other -- puttering around in the apple orchard, playing fetch with the dogs next door, exploring the old barn where Grandpa used to milk cows. We kick off our shoes at the door.
Maybe we're going to head up to our room which happens to be Dad's old room, with his pictures and schoolbooks and baseball glove), or up to the attic to sort through the bundles of old magazines in search of comic books.
I stop in front of the tv set, a big piece of furniture, wood-brown, with curved pillars on the sides. There's an empty candy dish and a photo of my Cousin Phil on top.
At our house the tv is almost always on, whether anyone is watchng or not, a stable, comforting background noise. But Grandma keeps it off unless someone wants to watch a specific program. It seems unnatural, wrong somehow.
I reach down and turn it on.
Kenny asks "What do you want to watch?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe Tarzan Theater." On Saturday afternoons in Rock Island, when there isn't a game on, you can see old Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy movies.
The black and white screen flickers, and then pops on. A game.
I turn it to the next channel. Some people talking.
"Find some cartoons," Kenny suggests.
There are only three channels, so only three choices. I turn to the third.
In my memory he's naked, although he was probably wearing a leotard. Shirtless, though, with taut hard pecs and very thick hard biceps.
You never saw naked or even shirtless men on tv in those days, except in Tarzan movies, so I stand dumbstruck, frozen in place, realizing that I will remember this moment forever.
"What's this?" Kenny asks.
The naked man twirls and high-steps, bulging his bare calves, across a bare stage to a young blond woman. Then, dancing a sort of tap dance, he asks "Who....are...youuuuuu?"
She starts a tap dance of her own, dances in front of him, and says "I....don't...know. Who...are...youuuuu?"
He stops dancing and glowers at her, his eyes dark, and replies. "I am the Magic Mushroom."
At that moment, Grandma appears at the window leading to the kitchen. "There's nothing for kids on now," she says. "Turn the tv off."
"Wait...I..." I begin. But Kenny obligingly turns it off.
"Now who wants to help me bake a pie for dinner tonight?"
All in a golden afternoon.
More after the break
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