‘What I did on my summer vacation’ – an essay that’s 42 years late

I’m about 42 years late with this essay.

Sister James Marian assigned it to my classmates at St. Cyprian School, in Riverview, in September of 1966, as they struggled to re-adjust to being back in their desks – and their uniforms – after a summer of fun and freedom. She never assigned it to me because I never returned to St. Cyprian that fall. And, as much as my classmates were struggling to re-adjust, I had some significant adjustments of my own.

All through the spring of 1966 my family and I packed. We packed dishes and appliances, books and toys, and I packed my memories and dreams. Throughout those months, I ignored the real estate sign on the front lawn that read “sold.” I still got together with my friends, especially Joe Bishop and Neven Vos, but we spent more time boxing up my belongings than we did riding bikes or playing ball.

Just weeks after leaving St. Cyprian, and watching my old house on Hinton blur through my tears as I stared out the window of my dad’s ’62 Chevy, I found myself at my new house in Detroit, sitting among my boxes of treasures. I refused to unpack because, as I saw it, unpacking meant I was gone forever from Riverview, from Downriver, from everyone and everything I’d known and loved for the first 12 years of my life.

I still wasn’t fully unpacked a year later, but in the summer of 1967, I finally realized that I was gone forever from Riverview. Some people called it a "riot," others a "civil disturbance," but no matter what it was called, for a kid transplanted from Downriver, the summer of 1967 was terrifying. The National Guard and U.S. Army units were marshaled just a block south of my house, at Detroit City Airport. The city was under a curfew and I could see, and smell, smoke from burning buildings just blocks away. I retreated to my room and finally unpacked my box of comic books; to hide out in a world that was familiar to me and, by the last page of the comic, usually made some sort of sense - unlike what was happening around me.

That’s how I spent my summer vacation in 1967, Sister, in my room, with my comic books, hoping and praying things would get better, and remembering better summers – like 1965.

I started the summer of ‘65 the way I remember starting every summer before – by getting a flat top haircut at Mike’s Barber Shop and getting a brand-new pair of P.F. Flyers.

My P.F. Flyers were not just summer shoes – liberating my feet from the leather torture devices that passed for shoes that I wore daily to school – they were a kind of summer calendar. As they aged, so passed the summer.

By mid- to late-June, the laces were gray with dust from the baseball field. Sometime in July, the rubber at the toes and heels was worn smooth, and by late July I’d usually lost a couple of those metal grommets from the air holes. By August, bits of rubber began to flap around the toes, the logo had pulled off the heel and the laces were frayed. By Labor Day, my P.F. Flyers made their last appearance, usually at the State Fair, with soles worn thin and laces tied two or three holes below my ankle because they had broken weeks before. The day after Labor Day, I was forcing my feet into stiff new leather “school shoes” and my P.F. Flyers were tossed on the floor of my closet.

As I look back, it would have been much more appropriate to give all those old pairs of P.F. Flyers decent burials behind the garage every Labor Day weekend. They were, after all, really summer pals who deserved a better end.

In the summer of ‘65, I saw Elvis in “Harum Scarum” at the Fort George Drive-In with the Podolack family. I went to Bob-Lo and finally got the courage to ride the Wilde Maus, one time. On a dare. Once was enough. The Zugspitz was plenty for this thrill-seeking kid! Throughout the summer of ‘65, I think I consumed about a gallon of frozen custard from Bob Jo’s and certainly ate many dollars worth of penny candy from Ed’s Market.

I listened to my transistor radio – baseball mostly, but some music. I didn’t discover the genius of The Beatles until I was older. That summer, I preferred Dino, Desi and Billy; and Gary Lewis and The Playboys. I rode my bike, too; and we played ball at the park. And I did a lot of just hanging around with my buddies.

My best memories of that last golden summer of my childhood were rekindled just a year ago, in the summer of 2008, when many of those dear old friends and classmates – the St. Cyprian class of 1968 – got together again, thanks to the efforts of my old buddies, Joe and Neven. Despite not "officially" being a part of that class through graduation, they kindly included me in the celebration; and we all shared stories about the 40 years of summer vacations that had passed.

Well, Sister James Marian no longer assigns essays to students. She’s "semi-retired" and living in Monroe, Mich., (and is a very effective fund-raiser for her order - the IHM Sisters, my check is in the mail, Sister ...) – but if she did, and if I were to write an essay for her about what I did on my summer vacation in 2008, I’d write that I rediscovered the deepest, most solid parts of the foundation upon which my adult life was built. I’d write that I reconnected with the first and best friends I ever made in my life. And I’d write that – even after more than 40 years – the best times, the best places, and the best people still live in our memories.

Twenty-two years of cartoons, but a 50-year relationship

This year marks my 22nd year celebrating Downriver communities, people and issues with my editorial cartoons in The News-Herald. Twenty-two years is a long time, but our relationship goes back much longer than that. Thirty years longer, to be exact.

I grew up down river back when it was just that – two words, lower case – and meant, to many people who didn’t live here simply, “that area south of Detroit before you get to Monroe …”

I lived in Riverview (a village when I moved in), on Hinton and I learned my most important life lessons and made the best friends I ever had in that neighborhood and at St. Cyprian School. I got my haircuts at Hubert’s Barber Shop and learned to ride my two-wheeler one memorable weekend in the empty parking lot of People’s Bank.

I saw my favorite movies at the Fort George Drive-In and at the Wyandotte Theater (before there was even an “Annex”). I rode midway rides at the local amusement park at a time when places like Bob-Lo Island and Edgewater Park might as well have been Disney Land, because they all seemed equally distant.

I played “army” at Memorial Park and I made many braided key chains at the activity center (which looked very much like a garage) at Ray St. Park. I collected empty two-cent pop bottles and cashed them in for penny candy at Ed’s Market or at Pat’s Stone Front Market, depending upon which side of town my buddies and I were “working.”

And my best memories are of those buddies – of Mark and Johnny, Joe, Fred and Ronald, David, Richard, Greg, Larry, Kurt and Neven; and of the girls I pretended not to like, too – Carla, Diane, Karen, Philomene and Suzy.

Life and career led me away from Downriver – but not far. My kids have been to St. Cyprian Church, they’ve played at Memorial Park, they’ve had frozen custard at the Bob-Jo and I drag them annually to go Cruisin’ Downriver.

Downriver was, is and always will be, my home, even though my address isn’t on Hinton anymore. Now it’s in my heart.