Summer on 9th

Summer on 9th South meant tuna sandwiches at the table with Grandma and Grandpa. (They like to call it supper instead of dinner). It meant a new pair of summer shorts fashioned by Grandma from phone call to finished product in 30 minutes, tops. Any fabric in her collection was ours for the taking. The sewing room doubled as a guest room, the door of which was plastered with stickers by Uncle Roger and David; a collection of their high school and college years. Their old bunk beds served as stern and bow for numerous voyages out to sea, Marshall, Libby, Winton and I taking turns at the helm.

Summer meant time with cousins from all across the country; Grettle's van parked under the tree by the patch of strawberries on the east side of the house where snails slid across the cement, hoping for an outing on the grass. It meant slumber parties with Anna and Meka in the spare bedroom upstairs where Mom and Karen used to sleep. They shared everything from late night gossip to jewelry to Mom's Frye boots, even if Karen didn't ask permission. Summer meant time in the garden with Grandpa, pulling up carrots and snacking on sugar peas. It meant Sunday dinners on the deck with the whole family and ice cream cones on the green benches where we liked to dangle our bare feet above the front porch. It meant piggy back rides to the park and under dogs on the swings. It meant popsicles from the big white freezer in the family room full of frozen peaches to top all sorts of delicious desserts.

Summer on 9th South meant tearing old sheets to help Grandma make rag rugs which still cover every kitchen from Boston to the Big Apple to Beach houses in Southern California. It meant fresh sheets out of the dryer in the laundry room with the green walls and the single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. It meant perfectly made beds, corners tucked and turned down just so by Grandma. Summer on 9th South meant dividing up reunion t-shirts by family, from youngest to oldest, in piles on the family room floor. It meant togetherness, traditions, and the slow hum of the swamp cooler. It meant sewing together strings of buttons and bean bag tosses outside in the side yard. It meant fresh oatmeal raisin cookies for Grandpa, chocolate chip cookies for the grand kids and dough for the tasting.

There are still goodies in the freezer, rag rugs by the back door and fresh sheets on all the beds. I'm now give piggy backs instead of getting them and the walk to the park doesn't seem that far. But summer on 9th South remains the same - Grandma at the loom or on the sewing machine, evenings on the porch with cousins from near and far. We dangle our feet from the benches moving them to and fro and talk of memories, like swings, rocking back and forth inside our minds.