Special Column: In the Sweet Old Summertime

I was born and raised in Seneca, South Carolina, which felt like the smallest town in the world. It was the kind of place where most businesses closed on Wednesday and Sunday for church. There was no Walmart, although we did have Harper’s Five and Dime. We also had a BI-LO.

The population of Seneca today is about 8850. When I was growing up there, it was probably between 4500 and 5000. What I remember most about growing up in this small town was how special summer was, those weeks after school let out the Friday before Memorial Day and we returned right after Labor Day.

Summertime for wasn’t sleeping till noon every day. It was about being outside and playing all day until the streetlights came on. We ate lunch at whoever’s house we were playing at. I would love to be able to know how many bicycles we took apart and put back together, how many games of flag football or basketball we played, and how many superheroes pretend to be. I certainly would love to know how many ramps I jumped pretending I was Bo and Luke Duke driving the General Lee.

It never seemed hot. Perhaps we just did not care. Maybe age has something to do with it.

For me, summers in Seneca drum up some very specific memories. Perhaps these feel familiar.

I remember getting a Mason jar, poking holes in the top, and catching lighting bugs. There were a few times the holes might have been too big, and they escaped into the house.

On summer nights, after dad picked the garden, we would snap green beans and shuck corn to be canned for the winter. Looking back on it, it really was work, but it was family time and memories I still carry with me.

I didn’t really know how homemade ice cream was made, but remember being one of four boys who would stand in line to take my turn at the churn. When I make ice cream today part of me feels guilty for plugging it in and stepping away.

I remember telling my dad I wanted a new bicycle. He said sure, I can do that. He took me to the shed, showed me the lawn mower, and said to go around the neighborhood and see if people will let you cut their grass. The money could be used to put a bicycle on layaway at Roses. I cut enough yards every year to buy a new bike at the end of summer and have a new one when the next summer rolled around. I still remember the work ethic it taught me as a kid.

Most of my uncles and aunts lived within walking distance, and we would walk to visit. As a kid I use to think this was crazy. Why were we walking just to sit and talk? We saw these people all the time. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do this again.

Summer church always seemed more special. There were morning services and night services. If you behaved, you might get to go home with a friend between the two. After the night service, while the adults talked, we kids would run, play, wear ourselves down and crash when we got home.

These memories of summer didn’t include any video games, streaming services, or binge watching. It was all about being outside and that very specific sense of summer freedom.

I miss it.