Yellow Days of Summer

Even in a city notorious for its prolific rainfall, I remember blue skies that seemed to last forever. In a world free from electronic gadgetry, extraneous noise, and a detached society, we ran wild and free. We’ve all heard the lovely tales of how blissful it was to be able to sleep behind an unlocked door, but beyond that, I grew up in a world where people bonded together closely.

These playgrounds were the fields of forever, where my friends and I played endless games of baseball, kickball, and flew our kites on the wide open acreage of grass. This was where we rode our bikes for spin-outs in the dust, or rode daredevil circles on the blacktop on weekends or after school. This is where we scaled cyclone fences that rattled with a hollow echo of our ascent.

These were great days when our ignorance for the desire to grow up as quickly as possible was outweighed solely by our yearning for adventure. I reward myself with a smile every time I hear a baseball hitting the backstop and rattling its arrival; I smile at the fruity deliciousness of a candy necklace; I’m delighted whenever I smell a fresh peach, or hear a song that places me on a plush pillow of a wonderful memory.

My wondrous days were the 60’s, the lovely years of my childhood. For another, they may be the 70’s, or the 30’s, even the 80’s. The 50’s may be the era of fond remembrance, but whichever decade housed those days when we were young, it was a glowing time indeed.

In the heat of summer, I see myself running into the house, screen door slamming behind me. Breathless and sweaty, I'm only taking a quick respite from the sun. The old forward pull-handle of the fridge blasts me with immediate coolness. With a suck of air, the inside light shows a plastic pitcher filled with Kool-Aid.

I can see images, clear and crisp, and as vivid as any. I sit in sunlit balconies and look down upon a boy that casts a mop-headed shadow against a decrepit shed, hiding behind chicken wire and tall weeds. There's a dirty bandage on his right knee from falling off his bike into the gravel. Enough blood has seeped through the gauze to make him look heroic to the girls on the block.

That kid is me.