The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Last Day of School and the First Days of Summer

Around this date every year decades ago, we'd arrive at a much desired destination. 

The last day of school.

This is a recent photo of my beloved elementary school.  Grimes on Eleventh Avenue and Second Street in Mount Vernon, New York.  The building above was the new additional wing when we were going there.  In 2014, it looks like Berlin 1946.  But, then again, so does everything in economic-war-torn Mount Vernon.

But I digress. 

You awaited this special June day for week.  Indeed, when the school would send you home with the school calendar for the year in September, you would immediately skip right through to the last page.   What was officially the last day of school?

Learning usually stopped in early June.  You were being prepared for those pesky final exams.  Or as grueling as that could possibly be in the fourth or fifth grade. 

With tests out of the way, the last week of school seemed to take forever.  There was a lot of goofing off.  I even think there were some half-days as we were being emotionally and psychologically prepared for the annual separation of teacher and student. 

The very last day was almost always a Friday.  And you basically went in for a whole half-hour.  You were told that you were being promoted.  Duh.  Of course, there were probably some who weren't, but I made it a habit to be good friends with only the smart kids.  Oh, and here's your report card.  The teacher would say it was a pleasure to know you and out the door you went. 

Okay, maybe it was just 25 minutes.

You'd scamper down the stairs because your mother or father was still there waiting for you.  They hadn't even bothered to go home.  Our personal tradition was then for my mom and me to go have breakfast at Stanley's Restaurant with another set or two of pupil and parent.

It was a glorious day with the expectation of two fun months coming up. 

Of course, on the walk home, I would hear the sentence that would be repeated several more times before we hit September.

"Don't think you're gonna hang around the house all day and watch television."

Oh.  And why not?

I wasn't sure what my folks expected me to do at the age of ten or eleven.  I was too old to be supervised and way too young for a summer job.  And, oh yeah, I had already been studying the TV Guide for the past two months to scope out and schedule my daytime summer viewing. 

With both my parents now working nights, I was going to presented with chores.  So, yes, I guess it was a summer job.  With the parental units as resident straw bosses.

"Go mow the back yard."

I would start the process.   My grandmother would watch me from her kitchen window.

"You're just making a mess.  Go in the house and watch television."

Okay, I gladly accept this mixed message.  It's time for Dick Van Dyke reruns anyway.

"Go clean out your bedroom closet."

This, of course, presented me with tons of distractions.   I'd invariably find a long forgotten toy and the nostalgia kept me occupied for hours while the rest of my closet was piled precariously on my bed.

"Look at the mess you made.  Go watch television."

Yes, Mom.  And it's time for Paul Lynde and the Hollywood Squares.

"Go to the grocery store and pick up what's on this list."

I'd survey the items.  There's be four packs of cigarettes for Mom and two six-packs of Schaefer Beer for Dad.  I'd present to Gene the local grocer.

"You know, I probably shouldn't sell you the beer and cigarettes."

He'd, of course, say that as he handed me the brown paper bag of groceries.  Replete with smokes and drinks.  This was my favorite errand to do and I could be home in ten minutes, which was ideal.  After all, Gene Rayburn and the Match Game were coming on.

On summer Thursdays, I also got to participate with my dad in the weekly assignment of taking my grandmother to the A & P.  For a while, we used the supermarket on Oak Street.  When that closed, Grandma's selection of a new supermarket was akin to deciding which day the Allied Forces should land on Normandy Beach.  My father suggested a new venue.  A Waldbaum's in downtown Mount Vernon.

"Waldbaum's?  That's only for Jews."

No, seriously, Grandma, anybody can go in there.  They don't necessarily check your religious denomination on the way in.  Eventually, she bought in and actually liked the then-fancy new surroundings.  My job was to push the basket as she selected the very same items week to week.  Each food product came with a price check.

"You see this Oscar Meyer's bologna?  Last week, it cost $ 2.59.  This week, it went to $ 2.65." 

This was my grandmother and her take on economics.  She couldn't read, but she sure could keep track of the week-to-week price increases on cold cuts.  I'd be amazed at how she could do this.

"You see this Welch's grape jelly?  Last week, it cost $1.19.  This week, it's 1.29."

Yeah, but you're getting a free Flintstones drinking glass in the deal.  She'd wave off my attempts at an explanation.

We'd come home after taking two hours to do an hour's worth of supermarket shopping.  Just in time for Grandma's afternoon stories.  I'd sit and watch Another World with her.  Complete with her commentary on every character.  She caught me up on the last year's misdeeds in Soap Opera Land.

"This guy is a crook.  He stole somebody's money."

"I don't like her.  She's a show off."

"This one's a real tramp."

Eventually, my summer world evolved into more fun, fun, fun till your daddy took your T-Bird away.  The chores tapered off.  The reminders that I wasn't going to be parked in front of the TV all summer subsided. 

I was always allowed to be a kid.  And some of those summers on 15th Avenue gave me memories that I'll never forget.  At least until when I share them here.

Dinner last night:  Sausage and onions and peppers at the Hollywood Bowl.