Crazy days of summer

 As the late great Nat King Cole sang, break out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. I remember all too well the last bell before vacation and trading in my school clothes for a pair of shorts and sneakers. We kept a T-shirt in our saddlebags strapped to our bicycles in case we had to go into a store or the soda fountain, which we did a lot. I close my eyes and open my memory bank to withdraw moments in time that seemed to stand still so I could revisit them.

I remember long, hot days and muggy nights, praying for a breeze to enter my bedroom through the window, with a fan that made more noise than it blew air. With my eyes closed, I can go back in time, listening to the neighbors up late, gathered with friends on the porch, and ladies fanning themselves with a folded magazine. The clanking of empty bottles as another ice-cold beer was opened, and would eventually be disgarded with the others already stacking pretty high on the porch.

I recall the first day the public swimming pool opened for the summer as dozens of kids waited in line with their towels and goggles, talking among themselves to see who would be the first one to brave the giant slide that emptied into the deep end. The lifeguards were mostly high school seniors making a couple of dollars as summer jobs, and there was always a group of giggling girls around them. Some were going to extremes, faking they were in trouble, so a lifeguard had to jump in and get them back to the deck, where they miraculously made a full recovery.

Summer meant baseball, and every kid old enough to hold a bat and throw a ball joined the city leagues. We received uniforms donated by various companies and businesses, and we got to pick our team names. Our uniforms could only be worn for games, but our hats stayed glued to our heads the entire summer. We would practice almost every day in a field that, over time, had been trampled down and looked just like the city field except for the absence of chalk lines and sand-filled bags as bases. For those, we used flat rocks.

With my eyes still closed, I wandered back in time once again to camping out in the woods, where we pitched our tents, handed down by older brothers who pretty much wore them out. My dad was in the army reserves, and one day he surprised my friends and me with almost-new tents he claimed were only slightly damaged. We left it at that. Camping meant eating too many snacks and reading comic books with a flashlight that some of us won by answering questions on the back of a cereal box. We would usually go exploring in the darkness of night on the hunt for trools and other scary things that went boo in the night

In the morning, we'd go to the lake and wash off the sticky mess that s'mores left on our hands and mouths, then it was time to mount our steeds and head out exploring parts unknown, but always an adventure. We came across an old field that had once grown corn but now lay in waste, with four rusted tractors just sitting there. We played on those until the thrill wore off, then headed into town, where we put on our t-shirts and stepped inside the soda shop for a burger and fries smothered in brown gravy.

My times as a kid will be with me forever, as will the faces of my friends who scattered across the country seeking their callings, just as I did, ending up thousands of miles away with a wife and three kids. We've made our own memory book, and sometimes I'll pull out my photo albums, mostly in black and white, that once had my daughter asking me why we didn't have colored clothes and cars.

I feel so lucky to remember those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer spent with some lifelong friends, and to have a memory like a steel trap.

Mike 2026