Dandelion Summers - a Baby Boomer's Memories

In my memories of childhood, summer stretches out like a lazy cat on a porch —long, warm, and relaxed. It wasn’t that we had nothing to do. We all picked strawberries at our neighbor's farm, and we had our chores. There were weeds to pull in the vegetable garden, green beans to snap so Mom could can them in Mason jars, and plenty of other little jobs. Whining about boredom could lead to things like being handed a rag and a pan of warm water and baking soda solution to wash the painted woodwork around the doors and windows of our old house.

The summers when I was old enough to have a bicycle and a bit of freedom—but young enough to not yet know the turmoil of puberty—stand out as the highlights of my childhood. I think of those times while walking on the hill above a park in Tacoma. Floating up to me in the evening air, come the quintessential sounds of summer—a bat hitting a ball, distant cheering, whistles and applause.

In spite of my life lessons in physical work and responsibility, I enjoyed plenty of afternoons on an old quilt spread under a tree, reading my beloved library books, my mind in another world. I can still feel the soft cotton against bare suntanned legs and hear the leaves rustling above my head. I had time to daydream, look up at clouds and imagine what their shapes suggested.

We had a great homemade swing set, and we improvised other play equipment from such things as a couple of old oil drums and some long 2x12 planks of lumber. These could become everything from a “teeter-totter” to the tight rope in a circus act. We hung old blankets over the board to make tents, and used it to make a safe path through blackberries thickets, flopping it down through the brambles to part them, since the sweetest, juiciest and biggest berries always seemed to grow in the center.

That's me in the back, my brother Bruce with the hat, and some little girl named Debbie
sitting in the kiddy car I had regretfully outgrown. I wish I had that car now.

We ran barefoot and stepped on bees, fell down and got bruised and scraped, played kick-the-can and croquet on the front lawn, drank lemonade out of brightly colored aluminum tumblers, and ate Popsicles Mom made herself in Tupperware molds. There were trees to climb, bugs to catch, bikes to ride, and camps to build. Across our hayfield the dirt path to the neighbor kids’ house was well worn and trampled hard, as children and dogs ran from one yard to the other all day long.

 

 

We enjoyed memorable family outings, long and short. They included picnics, all-day excursion to Mount Rainier where we picked blueberries, camping trips, and even a two month tour of the U.S. with our travel trailer. We often ate dinner on the patio. Except for swimming lessons, we had no organized activities. Mom never drove us anywhere all week. Imagine life without McDonald’s or computer games.



I look back and remember these summers as rich and enriching experiences, that had much to do with shaping the person I now am. Left to our own resources and imaginations we learned to think creatively, get along with each other, appreciate nature, believe in the possibility of anything we could dream, and that life was meant to be joyful.

It’s a nice Northwest summer day, but the kids are still in school. Their summer won’t be quite like the ones I remember, but I hope at least some things haven’t changed. I hope they play more outside than inside, scrape a few knees, get dirty, and that little freckled faces still grin as they stretch out grubby hands to give a smiling mother a bouquet of weeds. Have a dandy, dandelion summer!

(Note: This is a slightly edited version of a post I published in 2008, one many people enjoyed. It seemed just right for today.)

All photos and text Copyright 2012 Candace Brown. Please do not use without permission.

Raking in the Memories

On the day of my father's birth the Panama Canal had been open for three weeks. He didn’t know or care. Neither did it matter to him that on his second day, the underdog Notre Dame football team tried out their new “forward pass” on Army, resulting in a gridiron upset never to be forgotten. I doubt if those headlines mattered to his mother either. She cared only about the new life beginning as October ended in 1913, a life during which her son would come to know and care about a great number of things. In October, when red and golden autumn leaves mark the passing of time, I think of my father more than ever. He should go down in history too.

Dad never made the headlines, except maybe on Vashon Island where he spent most of his life. Sometimes the island paper mentioned his many roles beside husband, father of seven, and friend to many. He also contributed to society as a water district commissioner, scoutmaster, PTA president, member of his church, school board, Odd Fellows lodge, and frequent volunteer in all kinds of situations. For example, during World War II he helped man an observation tower, often staying up all night to watch and listen for aircraft and record the direction of travel.

At the same time he worked long, hard hours running an auto freight business which was considered a vital industry. Truck drivers were exempted from military duty. He sometimes made two trips in a day to Tacoma where he picked up meat and other supplies, delivered flowers from Beall's greenhouse, whose blooms he also took into Seattle to the Pike Place Market. He moved people too, or pianos or firewood or somebody’s heifer to be bred or whatever else needed hauling. Over the years he worked at other jobs as well, being many things to many people, but most importantly a good example. 

Have I mentioned life on the home front? Something always needed to be painted, planted, plowed, picked, or patched. My father grew enough fruit and vegetables to feed half the island. I took for granted that he could fix anything. We went on car trips, picnics and outings and no matter how long and tiring his day he’d always listen to a book report, read a story, or help on a math problem. He gave us rides in the wheelbarrow, bouncing along the garden path until we were hysterical with giggles. Through him we learned to make change, balance a checkbook, have a good work ethic. It seemed he could make everything in the world okay.

Sometimes, when I think about Dad, I think about all that has changed since his birth. In that year Ford Motor Company began using the first moving assembly line, and his mother marveled at the news of an electric home refrigerator just out on the market. He lived through several wars, the wackiness of Wall Street, space travel and Spandex and learned to use a computer. At least he's done raking leaves. If only all Americans lived by his ideals of citizenship and kinship, our country would be a better place. Thinking of you, and missing you, Dad. Happy Birthday. That old Panama Canal has nothing on you.

Ode to the end of August

August can’t leave without long good-byes. Another year of life, a year now pregnant with the consequences of my thoughts and deeds, rounds out in the fullness of her eighth month. In these last few days, I wander through the garden, unhurried. Around me linger faded roses and blackberries, overripe, and the perfume of fallen apples rises from the ground. Corn stalks rustle in a slight breeze. Under the cornhusks golden kernels hide, swollen and crowed. This eighth month feels heavy with memories of Augusts past.

On a rare quiet afternoon in my Tacoma home I daydream in a chair by an open window. The unread book slips from my hand. A wind chime tinkles and I hear a lawn mower down the street. In my mind I am back in my mother’s kitchen on Vashon Island, forty-five years ago, releasing kidney beans from their dry tan shells. Plink. Plink. Plink. They hit the enameled bowl while the pressure cooker whistles on the stove. The canning never ends. I would rather look again through the new Sears and Roebuck catalog, at the school clothes we might order. Now I think of my mother in her apron, filling the clean Mason jars.

August means brown lawns, grasshoppers and ripe tomatoes. Leaves float in the wading pool. The porch furniture needs cleaning. The petunias look scraggly. Shorter days seem to symbolize its sense of impending change, from one season to another, from child to adult. In this eighth month, under a full moon, the first poignant summer romances of youth, ended. The memories of youth became never ending.

This August I pondered that same moon while riding the last ferry of the night from Vashon Island back to Tacoma. That moon never abandons me, witness to my years. It always seems biggest at this time of year. With my car parked far out on the open deck, I relished having a front row seat. I opened the windows to the warm air, the scent and sounds of the water. In the distance, on all sides, from Des Moines to Gig Harbor, the scattered lights of the human domain lit up the darkness, but it pleased me to see the great expanse of black that is Point Defiance Park, and to know that wild creatures, with their all-seeing eyes, still crept among the trees. The moon watches them too, and shines down on the pathways I walk, soon to be covered with autumn leaves.

Good-byes can be long or quick and painful, but to the human heart, never final. They are but chapters in the book that has dropped from the hand. We pick it up and read again, over and over, for as long as memory lasts, as long as the heart feels. The year that now reaches its fullness will give birth to more memories, but also new opportunities and dreams as the seasons change and the year goes ‘round again. Good-bye August. You are always bittersweet. Next year when the apples hang ready to fall, and butter slides over an ear of corn, my life may have changed, but you and I, the past and the present, and the moon, will all meet again.