August, 2019.
It is that time of year. August, the dire month when every person faces their past and their future. It is the challenge that each of us will meet within weeks, perhaps, days. It is the moment we’ve dreaded since the days grow long, and the nights became alit with fireflies. Ready or not, we all face the challenge of the “What I did on my summer vacation?” question.
It was never easy, but the stakes seems higher as the years pass. We are a typical retired 70ish couple. Truthfully, I am happy to while away the dog days sitting on my rump and watching the leaves sway. Meanwhile, my neighbors are traveling to the Amazon going on a 14 day 13 night jungle hike. Others are less lofty, facing their fears of heights by skydiving over the Swiss Alps. What’s wrong with watching swaying leaves?
Today, I can’t remember one topic I featured as a student in Montauk Highway Elementary or while at Old ’88. Guessing it wasn’t leaves dancing overhead. But here is what I hope i penned down.
As a child growing up on the south shore of Long Island, summers were AWESOME. My brother, Bob, was the skilled angler who presented us with pan fried snappers (fresh from the Connetquot River) on summer mornings. Long Island vegetable gardens were bursting with bounty, sown from seeds sold in the old wood floored A&P or across Main Street at Heinlein’s Hardware. By summer, “shopping” took place in the back yard. Blue clawed crabs were huge, and with the aid of a net and some skill, they were there for the asking. Paired with some fresh picked veggies, lunch was never better. My grandmother believed the salt water surrounding us only added to the flavor. Dinner typically was some other gift from the bay. Clam chowder, clams and spaghetti, clams oregano, I am salivating! Another summer staple: blowfish, or what we called “Long Island fried chicken of the sea.” Easy to catch, easy to clean, and the easiest part of all, easy to eat! If there were any left overs, summer breakfasts were even more special with our fried chicken of the sea. But maybe, my teacher isn’t hoping for a monologue about food.
Summers were designed for play. Bicycling, house to house, until we could gather some numbers and settle in for some random activity of game or fort building wasn’t unusual. If the day was unusually hot, and we had been scooted away from someone’s back steps with the direction of “Go, play” we’d head over to “Bubbles Falls.” This was a secret place only for kids. No adults allowed, ever! The falls were actually the headwaters of the Connetquot. which ran over a small spillway creating a 4’ waterfall. It was oddly located between a major highway (Sunrise). and a railroad track (LIRR). But, between those two busy places was a quiet bit of heaven. We were in our own jacuzzi (before I knew that word!). Even when the quiet was interrupted with traffic behind us, or a passing train in front of us, we sat, invisible to all, sharing the secrets of summer.
After dinner, a crew of local kids would engage in a game of hide and seek, not in someone’s back yard but in the woods…climbing trees was a must! Or, if someone’s parents were so inclined to invite a few extra kids into their station wagon, we’d head out to the Drive In. The movies didn’t start until dark. Whatever was playing wasn’t important, we went for the pre-movie time. The refreshment stand (egg rolls, pizza, hot dignity dog!), then we’d hit the playground. The usual of swings and monkey bars entertained us enough. And if we were feeling especially brave we might even converse with kids from a different town. Then, one last trip to the refreshment stand for a ice cream on a stick that we called “rockets.” We headed back to our car, sweaty and happy, where we settled down for a cartoon or two. When the headliner movie finally began, we’d grab our pillows and fall asleep watching the stars from the back of the wagon.
Summer evenings take me back. One magical memory stands out. No, I’m not talking about Disney’s magic. That “kingdom” only existed on Sunday evenings to be watched on our 13’ black and white television set, with Walt, himself, hosting! This magic took place at a neighboring community. It began by taking a short drive over to Lake Ronkonkoma before sunset. In the 1950’s the lake had several (5-7?) pavilions. All of them were open to the public and each had lightbulbs on a string surrounding their rooflines. Then at twilight, one by one, each of the pavilions began to sparkle. As the dark settled over the lake, the lights became brighter. These weren’t little gazebo’s but large pavilions sitting close to the lake’s sand. Each pavilion had a name, and a specialty in the taste of music. They all had wooden floors for dancing and seating for 100 (or more!) people. Once the lights appeared, each pavilion would come alive with music, people, dance and laughter. it didn’t make a difference that each pavilion had different music playing at the same time. The lake was big enough that other music didn’t interfere with the beat or mood of where you were. When the band took a break, you could hear the other music wafting over the lake, luring you over. Frequently, we took the bait and went to check out the who’s and what’s by traversing the lake’s beaches. We were always involved, always welcomed, always safe.
I haven’t been to the Lake Ronkonkoma in 60 years. But, by September, 2019, when asked by my neighbor (having returned from their Amazon jaunt) what I did over the summer, I would love to say that I had crabbed on the Connetquot, took a dip in Bubbles Falls, had a beachside dinner feasting on fried chicken of the sea, and held hands with a friend as we walked the sands of Lake Ronkonkoma.
That night, the pavilion’s twinkling lights were my stars and the music playing from across the lake was my moon, giving me direction.
