"Daddies were taller, trees were shadier, trips were longer, and Saturdays were a long way apart." -- Mary Gilmore, quoted by Ron Green, Sr in the Observer today.
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I read this book sitting on the ground with my back against that big tree next to the walk in our front yard. I sat in the shade and read and sucked on a Kool-Pop and pretended that school would never start again. And for three months the pretending worked.
Nothing to do! For three months!
Which meant I could do anything I wanted to do, because there wasn't anything I had to do.
Forts in the woods. Army men in the pine straw at Wayne's house. Two-man baseball in the side yard -- the fence-post by the rose bush was first base, the rock in the middle of the yard was second, the bush by the house was third. Over the hedges into Barry's driveway was a homerun and we kept track of who hit how many just like in the bigs. I hit 50-some one summer.
I hated the idea of learning to drive. If I learned to drive, that meant I wasn't a kid.
Is there a day that kind of thing ends? When do daddies become not so tall and Saturday's get closer together? Shouldn't there be some kind of cap & gown ceremony and a little finger-food reception and cards stuffed with cash to buy a razor or some gas?
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