First Day of Summer

Being a child at home alone in the summer is a high-risk occupation.  If you call your mother at work thirteen times an hour, she can hurt you.  Erma Bombeck


Today is Summer Solstice, the first day of summer.  As a person who does not do well in the heat, I must comment that it seems summer began mid-spring this year.  Flowers and budding bushes or trees all unfolded earlier than usual and were joyfully welcomed by all.  Now, however, there is a lack of rain too early for this coming hot season.

Summer offers children freedom from school and homework; sprinklers or swimming pools; sleeping in or staying up a bit later; sleep overs; visits to relatives; and special summer camps.  My childhood summers were filled with roller skating, playing dress up with old curtains, riding bikes, hopscotch, endless board games or card games, jump rope and sitting under the street lamp waiting for "Jo Jo" the Good Humor Man to jangle his ice cream truck's bells. 

Once it was dark and we grew tired of catching fire flies, we all returned to our respective homes.  Sticky from a long day of play in the hot sun, a nice long bath washed all of the ice cream streaks and dirt away.  Clean sheets from the clothes line and fresh pajamas were the perfect ending to a long hot day of play.

In the summer night, my bedroom window would be open and through the screen I could smell the lilac bush outside.  I could hear the music from the carousal from Kiddie Land several blocks away.  I could also hear cheers from crowds at Thillens Little League as scoring runs were batted in. 

There was something peaceful about a summer night.  Maybe having the window open let me feel connected to the great world outside.  I would fall asleep knowing the beautiful stars were twinkling brightly and the magical moon gently crossed the sky.  I was certain they would be there again for me night after night, hanging in the summer sky.

The Wild Garden of Childhood ...

Everything is ceremony

in the wild garden

of childhood.

Pablo Neruda

Winter Garden

My search for objects of wonderment began very early in childhood.  My boundaries for exploration were limited so most of my discoveries occurred in the empty lot next to our apartment building.  As the lot was ill kept, things could easily be hidden in the tall weeds.  Most of these items were more than likely discarded junk, but to me this empty lot was a sacred garden of treasures. 

The corner lot was huge viewed by my child's eyes and my daily jaunt was an imagined safari.  I generously gathered random items and kept them in earlier discovered boxes with ornate lids.  I found old coins, and a small collection of military medals. It was always pure joy to find a discarded notebook containing empty pages waiting for me to sketch all over them or write to my heart's content.  Buttons were good, and sometimes old leather bound books were worthy keepsakes even if they were beyond my understanding.

At times, some adult would toss a stack of bound newspapers into the tall grass.  This provided a cushioned place for me to sit and it was low enough to hide me in my lair.  I could over hear conversations as strangers walked down the city street or snippets of information from neighborhood children racing by on their bikes.


To sit in this special space I experienced solitude and an awareness of birds, butterflies, and unfortunately unwanted snakes.  I would hold rocks in my chubby little hands and place wildflowers around me. My day dreams frequently crossed the threshold into other realms.  I loved every cloud in the sky and etched floating words into my diary.  My writings were safe in my diary with the little key and lock.


After many hours of play, I would wander back into our apartment where my mother would cast her eyes filled with disdain upon my filthy appearance.  She would promptly put me in a bathtub where I would then soak trying to scrub the dirt from behind my fingernails.  I never wore shoes and the bottoms of my feet were like leather.  If asked, the bruises on my knees from crawling around in the height of discovery were difficult to explain. The warm bath water, however, always comforted me and prepared me for the nap that was yet to come.


All these years later, I still collect rocks and keep random treasures in old wooden boxes.  I frequently write in journals after spending time outside exploring mother nature.  Taking a bath has grown into a ritual with soft music, a candle and sometimes flowers.  After surrounding myself with books, a nap still follows.  Words still float by me, and with any luck, I still cross the threshold into other realms.

Santa Claus, Symbol of Hope

Christmas at my house is always at least six or seven times more pleasant than anywhere else. We start drinking early. And while everyone else is seeing only one Santa Claus, we'll be seeing six or seven.

- W. C. Fields

My earliest memory of Christmas is pretending to be intrigued by the age old stories of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snow Man as I held my little books in my lap.  I was not allowed to help decorate the tree as I apparently did not do it 'right'.  So as my sister and mother joyfully decorated the tree, I remained alone on the couch . 

My eyes would wander over to the wooden manger with all of the statues of animals, shepherds, wise men, Mary and Joseph, and of course the baby Jesus in the manger.  The star that was placed by edge of the roof always held my attention.  There was an unexplainable significance in the star always remaining just out of my reach.

Every Christmas Eve my family attended church services.  As a small child, I did not feel much of a celebration with the birth of Christ knowing that he would soon be crucified.   My imagination, however, was always captivated by the brilliance of all the candles filling the church.  This fascination with the flickering flames of light continues today.

Santa Claus was important to me, but not because of any glamorous presents and toys.  He brought a sense of magic I desperately needed in my life.  It was difficult for me to stop believing in him and to face my emotional isolation.  I was 13 years old when I finally released my childhood fantasy of Santa.

As an adult, I began to shop for wooden Santa Claus figures.  I have accumulated quite a collection, purchasing one per year.  I have kept them in a cabinet for many years, always displaying them at Christmas time.  Each Santa holds unique meaning for me and individual placement is given great care. 

Every Christmas, my children received presents from Santa, and the gifts were signed with distinguished penmanship.  I created a specific signature for "Santa"

which I continue to use to this day.  As grown adults, I believe that my children continue to enjoy the random surprises found in their stockings that "Santa" continues to fill.

The child in me still watches for Santa Claus as

I realize that no matter how old you are or what he is named (Santa, St. Nick, Father Time) he is a symbol of hope.  Every year, my lips break into a smile every time I hear, "Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!"