Cherry red tongues scream “Summer!” to me.
My cousins and I used to collect returnable bottles, some we’d pick up from the side of the road in Gardiner and others our parents would donate to the cause, then head to the 7-Eleven down the street and turn litter into Slurpees.
I always got cherry. I remember getting brain freeze as I raced against August’s heat, because slush is the magic of a Slurpee. I remember sticking out my bright, courtesy-of-chemicals, cherry red tongue. I don’t remember how much it cost to get a tongue that special shade of red, but it couldn’t have been much, since bottle collection was our slush fund.
We’d go to Reid State Park and run in the waves and feel the earth slip from beneath our feet when we stood still and the water pulled away from the shoreline. We’d stand deep in the water and try to jump into waves before the crest formed and broke. I never mastered bodysurfing. I’d get jumbled and turned upside down by the water’s force, but I kept trying because everyone else was.
We had to protect our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches — crunchy from sand, not peanuts — from the seagulls. Every year I wondered if this was the year I’d get a tan.
The water was freezing and we didn’t care. The sand was burning and it was a game to scamper, quick-footed, to cooler territory.
When it was time to go, we’d shake out our towels, mindful of the people around us and where our parents were standing. When we got to the boardwalk, we’d stop to get the sand off our legs and out from between our toes, but the combination of salt, sweat and sunscreen made a special cement, and we brought the beach home with us.
Our parents insisted we sit on towels to protect the vinyl seats in the station wagon. Then the heat, air through open windows, thump of tires on the road and the luxury of not sticking to the seat would lull me to sleep, until I felt the car take a turn and knew we were pulling in for soft serve.
We took on skateboarding by starting at the bottom of a hill, each completing a short ride, and with success, moving the starting spot up a few feet, and up a few more feet. The length, pitch and danger quotient of the learning curve grew and, as night descended, we stood at the top of the hill, looking into the abyss.
I took my turn and wiped out in spectacular fashion.
I screamed, skidded on the pavement, and bloodied my knees and hands. My brother and cousins thundered down the hill, their forms emerging from the dark to rescue me, and when they pulled me up, nobody worried about my road rash. My clumsy end wasn’t the most important part of the night. I made it down the hill, a treacherous hill. What a feat!
Do you remember when you didn’t worry about skinned knees because you didn’t have to show up for work in a skirt, or wonder if wound ooze would stick to your pants? Bruises were fascinating and scabs were trophies, and though I didn’t know it way back then, they would become currency. At some point, we all use our scars to explain our history, a body map of our path for that “someone” who’s interested and interesting.
I never got a tan. My mother’s plan to start at a high SPF and slide down the protection scale as I soaked in more rays didn’t overcome genetics.
And how funny is it that when we were sandy and wet, we sat on towels on vinyl seats, but when we were clean and heading out in the car, we didn’t sit on towels for our comfort? We protected a car, built to withstand the dirtiest of children, because adults understand the pressure of owning things. They know what things cost, they put in the effort and planning it takes to buy them, and they know how long those things need to last.
As kids, we didn’t know any of that. We did know part of summer included peeling legs off seats and comparing the patterns imprinted into our thighs.
The kids’ table was on the screened-in porch, and we’d eat hot dogs and steamers and listen to our parents talking, shouting and howling with laughter. I’d beg for lobster, adult-only food back then, and get rewarded with juicy, salty legs. We learned to play bid whist, though now I know the O’Mara family pastime is a watered-down version, the equivalent of a melted Slurpee, to the real game.
My cousins and I did all of this without fear of shootings, deadly heat waves, polarized communities or political violence. Our economic indicator was in the bottles we collected and the Slurpees we could afford, and the outlook was good.
Even the looming end of summer, and the promise of school’s start, was a good thing. I loved getting new notebooks and starting the countdown to my next cherry red tongue.
