Sounds and Scents of Summer

A random sound or scent can transport me back to 1960s Ewing summers when, every June, the chalkboard and textbook smells of school were replaced with hot tar, honeysuckle, and chlorine. Back then, we grew up to the summer soundtrack of lawn mowers, splashing water, screen doors banging shut, and radios playing Tommy James and the Shondells or the Monkees. We filled every minute of every summer day with outdoor activities and fell into bed exhausted every night, only to wake up and start again the next day.

Ewing summers were a paradise to the kids in my neighborhood. There was always something to do; whether it was a game of Kick Can Kirby on Steinway Avenue, a swim in our backyard pool, a bike ride to Woolworth’s on Parkway Avenue, or attempting to catch crayfish in the Broad Avenue creek. We played until nightfall when the streetlights came on. Then it was a footrace to get home before our moms started yelling for us. They didn’t need cell phones to call us back then. All our moms did was stick their heads out front or back doors and bellow.

Shortly after school let out for the summer, Incarnation Church held its annual Strawberry Festival. This was an event eagerly anticipated by all of us kids. There were games, music, and of course, strawberries. We gorged on strawberry shortcake, strawberry tarts and strawberries and whipped cream. The Strawberry Festival was replaced in later years by the Incarnation Carnival. Held on the parish grounds, the carnival was a huge event. As kids, we rode all the rides a million times, played all the games, won countless goldfish in plastic bags, and got sick on funnel cakes and ice cream. Good times! When we got a little older, the carnival was a place to see and be seen. Too cool to play the games and ride the rides, we girls sauntered around the grounds dressed in our newest and best summer duds, pointedly ignoring the boys in our class who were doing the same thing.

Trips to the drive-in movies at the Ewing Drive-In on Prospect Street were my favorite summer evening activity as a kid. I remember hot nights, the smell of buttered popcorn, the tinny sound of the speaker that hung on the driver’s side window, and the crisp feel of my summer cotton pajamas as I stretched out on the roof of our station wagon with my younger brothers to watch “That Darn Cat” or “The Love Bug.” Another big treat was going to the McDonald’s on Olden Avenue and getting a cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. We ate while sitting on the cold yellow tile benches that lined the sides of the building. A trip to E.J. Korvettes and me begging for $.99 for a 45 RPM Beach Boys or Supremes record was a regular occurrence on a summer evening after dinner.

An infrequent highlight of early summer evenings was the Mosquito Man. The Mosquito Man drove up and down the streets of our neighborhood in a truck that spewed a thick white fog behind him. This fog was supposed to kill the mosquitoes in our township. The cry of “Mosquito Man” from the throat of a neighborhood kid was enough for us to drop whatever we were doing and streak toward the truck. We all ran behind the truck in the white fog for as long as our legs held out and reveled in the invisibility that the thick, probably poisonous cloud afforded us. We never suffered any ill effects from the Mosquito Man’s fog, and the mosquitoes didn’t seem to mind it, either.

The long, hot days of July soon gave way to August, when school loomed on the not-too-distant horizon. My mother would bring us to Grant’s (now C.H. Martin) in the Suburban Square Shopping Center or Cook’s (now Precious Pets) on Pennington Road to get notebooks, pencil cases, rulers and other school supplies. We would go to Young Ages (next to Ewing High) to get fitted for our uniforms and to Dunham’s (now Burlington Coat Factory) in Lawrenceville to get shoes. Needless to say, we were not happy about these chores. We escaped our mothers’ clutches as soon as possible and joined our friends to squeeze every last bit of fun out of what was left of the summer.

I remember lying on my back on the grass in our backyard one August morning. I just lay there, looking up and letting my mind drift like the clouds that scudded across the sky. I tried to identify every sound I heard: the trash men clanging the metal garbage cans out in the street, the screen door banging closed as my brother went into the house, our neighbor’s baby crying, my mother’s radio playing a duet by Frank Sinatra and his daughter Nancy. The song was called “Something Stupid.” As young as I must have been, I remember realizing that life doesn’t get much better than that. I closed my eyes and wished that that moment and that peaceful feeling could last forever. Lately, on a particularly stressful or sad day, I try and evoke my 60s summer memories. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear the echoes of our bikes with baseball cards in the spokes, or our laughter as one of us slipped off the stepping stones and fell in the creek.

I now fully understand the meaning of the old chestnut “Those were the days,” because they truly were the best days ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to go out and lie in the grass.