Summertime and the living is easy. Especially when you are 12, with an over active imagination. Anything could happen when school was out, and the sun didn't set until 8:45.
The summer of 1976 we were between homes, 6 of us living in a two bedroom, 1 bath, 800 square foot house on a San Anselmo cul de sac waiting for the Ross house my parents were building, to be finished. Fitting really since I had an in between situation of my own - that awkward preteen age when you felt your world changing, and hanging on to familiar things was pretty comforting.
We had spent the last 5 years in Greenbrae, having outgrown the San Anslemo house I had started life in. It may as well have been the next county for the disconnect I felt to my best friend who was left behind. Even though we went to the same school, when the afternoon bell rang we quite literally went in opposite directions and parents weren't as willing slaves to children back then as they are now. It was a rare afternoon when she and I were together. And so, the pain of having to share a tiny bedroom with my brother and twin sisters was completely offset by the fact that my best friend lived on the hill directly above the cul de sac, and the Ross house didn't look to be finished before summer's end.
By way of a moving in present, my very industrious friend, constructed a fort out of bamboo in our back yard; A real Gilligan's Island style wonder that hid us from mother's prying eyes. This same friend was the source of Laurie Partidge's keyboard of plywood and black marker, and the most fabulous dress up barrel filled with frilly frocks from generations past. Playing pretend games with a best bud who submerged herself in the same fantasy without question is freedom personified.
Summer was a feast for the senses and set our imaginations spinning. Heat dryed wild grasses scented the still air and the high pitched buzzing of cicadas signalled mid day heat. I always assumed that droning ring was what summer sounded like as if summer itself existed as an entity in its own right.
There was a lot of freedom that summer, running barefoot, back and forth between our houses, lost in our make believe world. When we bored of our pretend games, there was always the hike to Redhill and Swenson's Ice Cream Parlor. A blast of cold air brought relief from the stifling heat as we pushed through the glass door. I had my first taste of Bubblegum, Mocha Chocolate Chip and my personal favorite, Cherry Vanilla ice cream sitting beneath the turn of the century photos of San Francisco.
Trudging home across the baseball fields of Memorial Park, we would pass the requisite run down house we were convinced was haunted, or at the very least occupied by a murderous, old, mad woman. We would slow as we approached, trying to get a glimpse inside, daring each other to get right up to the windows. Giggling nervously in case the other would actually do it, we would pull each other away towards home. Once there, shoes tossed aside, and bolstered by the sugar rush, there was a game of tether ball to be played, and played and played. I nearly never won, being a full foot shorter than she.
The Firehouse horn bellowed across the valley signalling 5pm and the sound of summer days was soon replaced by the sound of summer nights...crickets chirping as the air finally started to cool. Still we played on even as night fell.
At last the piercing whistle would come. My friend's father beckoning her home. Even after a full day of childish pleasures I would sometimes sit gazing up at her house on the hill, lights blazing in the windows longing for tomorrow. Those waning days of youth when you could not spend too much time in the company of your friends. There was always another story that could be acted out, another game of tether ball to lose and way more ice cream to eat.
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