As a child, I grew up in Detroit...only about three or four blocks away from City Airport. The neighborhood was comprised of a lovely mix of residences; no two just alike. There were colonials, bungalows, and many others, and each one was sure to be surrounded by a well-manicured lawn and carefully-trimmed shrubbery. The streets themselves were shaded by a canopy of Elm trees, and walking along them on a summer day, was an experience sure to envelop all of the senses. The sunlight would dance along the sidewalks as it filtered through the gently rustling leaves, and branches would sway in the wind providing nature's finest air-conditioning. Front and back doors were always opened to allow the summer breeze to pass through the houses' unlocked screen-doors. One would hear them squeaking open and slamming shut all summer long, as children raced continuously, in and out of them, to every mother's dismay. They would admonish their children to keep the door shut because they were letting the flies in, but never before a few more had made their way inside. Neighbors sat on mesh-backed lawn chairs placed on their porches if they were big enough, or in their driveways, if they were not. Occasionally, a chair would be placed underneath an opened garage door to provide shade for a backyard barbecue, on days too hot to cook inside. The aromas from a sizzling grill would waft through the neighborhood causing neighbors to lean up against their fence posts, so that they could inquire as to what might be cooking. Every window in the house remained opened and the sounds of summer filled the air both day and night.
There was constant activity, as I remember it. One would see the paperboy riding his bike, as he tossed newspapers onto porches. The mailman could be seen pushing his mail cart with one hand, while glancing at the addresses on the envelopes that he was holding in the other. Next, the milkman stopping his truck at the end of every driveway, so he could deposit his bottles of milk in his customers' milk chutes. Once a week, the produce man would slowly drive by, to allow time for mothers to send their children out, change in hand, to purchase "strawberries, blueberries...four quarts for a dollar." And, perhaps, finest of all, the sounds emanating from the Good Humor truck, which provided its treats curbside to the delight of every child in the neighborhood.
It was a wonderful time to be a child, for, although there were plenty of rules and an equal amount of discipline should you break them, there was also great freedom. Chores had to be done and every sibling was assigned them, but, once they were finished, the days were your own. I would walk over to a friend's house and stand on their porch and call them, not on a cell phone, but literally at the top of my voice. When they answered, we would decide upon the day's adventure; walks or bike rides or swimming in the pool, and as long as you made it back on time for dinner, all was right with the world.
For supper we would each sit on our own specific chair. As the youngest this meant, of course, that mine was the one that was always by the table leg. We would take turns discussing our day as we unknowingly, learned the give and take of polite conversation, as well as good manners. After dinner, we would take our turn clearing the table and doing the dishes, allowing our mother a minute or two of well-deserved rest. Then, we would be off again until the street lights came on; the universal signal for everyone my age that it was time to go home. We would take our baths and get into pajamas...exhausted from a day filled with all the adventure and excitement a child could ever hope for. Finally, we would drift off to sleep to the sounds of the crickets chirping, underneath a sky full of twinkling summer stars. Every childhood should be as magical....
There was constant activity, as I remember it. One would see the paperboy riding his bike, as he tossed newspapers onto porches. The mailman could be seen pushing his mail cart with one hand, while glancing at the addresses on the envelopes that he was holding in the other. Next, the milkman stopping his truck at the end of every driveway, so he could deposit his bottles of milk in his customers' milk chutes. Once a week, the produce man would slowly drive by, to allow time for mothers to send their children out, change in hand, to purchase "strawberries, blueberries...four quarts for a dollar." And, perhaps, finest of all, the sounds emanating from the Good Humor truck, which provided its treats curbside to the delight of every child in the neighborhood.
It was a wonderful time to be a child, for, although there were plenty of rules and an equal amount of discipline should you break them, there was also great freedom. Chores had to be done and every sibling was assigned them, but, once they were finished, the days were your own. I would walk over to a friend's house and stand on their porch and call them, not on a cell phone, but literally at the top of my voice. When they answered, we would decide upon the day's adventure; walks or bike rides or swimming in the pool, and as long as you made it back on time for dinner, all was right with the world.
For supper we would each sit on our own specific chair. As the youngest this meant, of course, that mine was the one that was always by the table leg. We would take turns discussing our day as we unknowingly, learned the give and take of polite conversation, as well as good manners. After dinner, we would take our turn clearing the table and doing the dishes, allowing our mother a minute or two of well-deserved rest. Then, we would be off again until the street lights came on; the universal signal for everyone my age that it was time to go home. We would take our baths and get into pajamas...exhausted from a day filled with all the adventure and excitement a child could ever hope for. Finally, we would drift off to sleep to the sounds of the crickets chirping, underneath a sky full of twinkling summer stars. Every childhood should be as magical....
