Oh, to be a kid in summer

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

The last day of school - summer has begun. No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks.

I wish this were my last day of school. I wish I were 9 or 10 or 11 and had the whole summer off. I want to be bored and hot and suck on ice cubes and read comic books and complain that I have nothing to do.

I want to skip rope and play marbles and yell "Red Rover Red Rover, send Ann Marie over," and "My gouls one-two-three," and ride my bike around the block at least a million times.

I want to walk to the Dairy Queen with Rose, and sit on the front steps of 9 Davis Road with Janet and swat at mosquitoes and make up stories about poor girls who all have fairy godmothers, and come inside only when it's dark and slip into a bed my mother has made and read Rosmund Du Jardin novels 'til dawn.

I want to watch "Treasure Hunt" in the morning, play marbles at noon and spend long hours behind the School for the Deaf, building a bridge across a shallow stream or just sitting under a tree and pulling up grass.

I want to search for four-leaf clovers, follow rainbows to their end, do "He loves me, he loves me not", and wish every night on the first evening star.

I want to meet Rosemary half-way and walk up to Whitey's Bakery and buy corn cakes then climb up the steps of the old Turner Free Library and head straight for the children's room.

I want to drink a lime rickey at Rexall Drug, sit in the old Randolph movie theater and watch "Song of the South." I want to stop at Leon's for french fries, see Regina Kalitsis and Val Poche, sing "Put Your Head on My Shoulder" at the top of my lungs, run all the way home.

I want to catch fireflies in a jar, enough to read by, and bees and butterflies and praying mantises. I want to stand under the trellis of my old front walk and smell summer heat, and roses, and freshly cut grass.

I want to walk into Ann Marie Tantillo's and find Mrs. Tantillo in the kitchen pushing clean clothes through the ringer, while "The Guiding Light" is on TV. I want to shout across the yard to Mr. Butler, and see him smile. I want to see Rosemary's mother, on the couch in her living room, skeins of yarn all around her.

I want to go to the drive-in with my mother and father and play on the swings and eat popcorn and ice cream and watch movies with the rear view mirror in the way.

I want to ride the scrambler at Paragon Park and the bumper cars, and swim at Nantasket beach and stand on my head in the sand.

I want to run under the sprinkler, eat fireballs, drink vanilla cokes, and paint my fingernails blue.

I don't want to be an adult anymore. I don't want to work and clean and plan and worry. I don't want to notice that the rugs need vacuuming and the bathrooms need scrubbing and the windows need washing and the furniture needs dusting and the lawn needs cutting and the car needs waxing.

I don't want to care that there's no food in the house and no clean towels, that the cats haven't had their rabies shots, that the bills need to be paid and the brakes checked on the car.

I don't want to deal with the Registry, with the IRS, with acquaintances who carry grudges, with people who think they're better than everyone else, with grumps and whiners and complainers.

I don't want to worry about cancer and AIDS and old age and health insurance and genetically altered food and presidential candidates and hazardous waste and toxins and crime and college costs and drunk drivers and seemingly normal people who suddenly go berserk.

I want to be 9 or 10 or 11 and wake up tomorrow morning and go outside and play, and not be responsible for anyone or anything until school starts again in the fall.