Those Idyllic Old Days

I may have previously inferred that I occasionally bike past a favorite swimming area referred to as, “Crystal Beach.” And without fail, as I peddle past that precious preoccupation, in the wee hours of the morning, I think, “What an idyllic childhood I had.”

I recall walking past ancient Oak Hill Cemetery, on my way to what we referred to as, the “picture show” (the Ritz) in the late afternoon; only to repeat my “360” the same evening. By this time it had grown dark, and as my friend, and I trudged down that old dirt road, we did our best not to turn our heads to the right or left. On the right were countless century-old headstones; by this time of the evening, awash with “lightning bugs.” On the right was a wooded area and railroad track where, on my way home from school, I sometimes climbed an old mulberry tree, and feasted on the overripe berries; only to have my mother complain about the purple stains left on a shirt she’d bought for me, only a week before. (For a ten year old the dark of night adds a whole new flavor to the sanctity of one’s home turf).

I recall the dreary day when my dad and I ventured out into what was literally the eye of the storm. Hurricane Donna had just blown through, and had done its worst, or at least half its worst since “she” had drawn a direct bead on the City of Bartow. And a few minutes after my father and I surveyed the damage to our neighborhood, what was left of that massive cyclone resumed its angry journey across my favorite portion of the world.

At the time central Florida was, as I recounted earlier, “awash with lightning bugs.” (Sadly, insecticides have markedly reduced their numbers now.) It also was, (and still is) awash with mosquitoes. And during the spring and summer months a city spray truck would navigate its way along streets named Stanford, and Broadway and Pearl and Formosa. And contrary to current EPA guidelines that human beings avoid direct contact with pesticides, in every neighborhood, children listened for that old familiar hissing sound, and anxiously watched for the blinking yellow dome light of the mosquito truck. My “Formosa friends” (for this was the street on which I lived) impatiently waited until the truck passed, and ran to and fro behind it; the foggy mist enveloping our bodies, and permeating our skin. And somehow we all lived to tell about it.

(I suppose the youth of today are more "sophisticated," with their pants hanging down to their knees, and their multi-colored drawers; their faces buried in laptops, tablets, and I-pads. Black, brown or blonde scalps peeking from above those 21st century devices).

We played “crack the whip,” we mentally, (if not physically) rebelled at the second grade faculty’s collusion that we learn to square dance, we romped through back yard orange groves, we bought nickel cokes at Clara’s Grocery, we climbed a massive pile of sand afforded the more expansive name of mountain.

Sadly, there are no time machines. The closest we come to it are such reminiscent, resplendent, journeys of the mind; down those long since lived-out childhood highways and byways.

By William McDonald, PhD. (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 31. Copyright pending

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