I was 6 years old in the summer of 1962, and we lived down a dusty dirt road about two miles from the little community of Springtown and five miles or so from Gentry. My dad farmed and I learned at a young age how to stretch a dollar.
I knew not to expect too much in the way of unnecessary luxuries. But I never felt deprived, and thought we had everything we ever wanted.
My dad’s favorite holiday was the Fourth of July and he always made it special for us. First thing in the morning, Daddy would throw a couple of fairly clean gunny sacks in the back of his rattly, rusty old pickup truck, and we would drive into Gentry to the icehouse. If my memory serves me correctly, it was on Main Street about where the laundromat is now. There was also an old Sinclair Dino station near that location. He would buy a couple of blocks of ice and wrap them in the gunny sacks to keep them from melting before we got home. These blocks were probably 12 or 18 inches square, so they made the trip, no problem.
Then he would unload them and, while still in the gunny sacks, break them up with the broad side of his ax. While we were making the ice run, mom and grandma had been mixing up a couple of containers of ice cream and getting the old hand-cranked ice cream maker down out of the attic. Daddy would load the cylinder full of the creamy liquid into the old wooden bucket and pack the broken ice down around it, adding a layer of rock salt every now and then. Then mom would put a couple of folded towels down on the top of the bucket and I would hop on and sit there sucking on a piece of salty ice while daddy cranked the handle.
I would have to take a break every now and then when my bottom got too cold, and then mom or grandma would take a turn. They cheated and, instead of sitting on it, they held it down with their hands. Now I don’t really know why someone had to sit on it while it was turned - I guess to keep the ice and salt from working its way out. But by the time we had ice cream, my behind was a bit numb!
But it was well worth it, because I don’t think anything has ever tasted as good as that ice cream made with fresh milk and eggs straight from the hen house.
When that “chore” was done, we would load back up in the truck and head to Springtown. I got to ride in the back for this trip, since there were no highway miles involved. I know it was dangerous, and we would never think of letting our kids do that now, but I loved it. And I don’t imagine we ever went over 20 or 30 miles an hour, anyway. There was nothing like feeling the hot wind blowing in your face and fighting over your place on the wheelwell with one of the numerous hound dogs along for the ride.
And, oh, those summertime smells! New mown hay, clover, wild roses and the wet muddy smell of the creek when we crossed are fragrances that can never be duplicated. And don’t forget a wet dog or two, because they would bail out and jump in the creek when we slowed down to cross. We would stop and pick them up on the way back home, and I would get a shower, whether I needed it or not.
When we arrived at Riley’slittle filling station - that’s what we called gas stations then - daddy would let me go in the front and pick out an assortment of pop from the old chest pop dispenser. He would grab a couple of wooden pop crates, and I would fill them with Nehi Grape and Strawberry, Orange Crush, Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, Mt. Dew and Coca Cola, all in bottles - it tastes so much better from a bottle! I was so excited. Pop and ice cream on the same day! And when this pop was gone, we usually didn’t get any more until the next Fourth of July.
Then when the day turned dark blue and the crickets started to sing, my sister and brother and their kids (who were near to my age) would come over and we would light sparklers in the yard and write our names in the air, and maybe watch Daddy shoot off a couple of Roman candles in the road.
We would drink pop and eat watermelon from the garden and homemade ice cream until we couldn’t hold another ounce. We would take turns swinging on the old rope swing that hung from the ancient mulberry tree in the yard and catch lightning bugs and put them in a Mason jar with a little grass so they felt at home.
I’m sure there were better fireworks and bigger celebrations going on somewhere, but these are memories that I cherish, of simpler times, when the world revolved around us and the worries of adulthood were still far in our future.
I hated to see the day end, but finally exhaustion won out and I would sleep, cool and comfortable, to the quiet roar of the old water cooler, while colored sparks lit up my dreams.
Many years later, my father passed away on the Fourth of July. So now, every Fourth, I light a sparkler for my dad and remember.…
Tamela Weeks is a freelance writer in the Gentry area. She may be reached by email at tamela.mailto:[email protected].
Opinion, Pages 4 on 07/03/2013