Back to Summer
July 2nd 2009
I read Roger Ebert’s summer memoir and thought again of some of my own summers, growing up in Akron. So, on July 2nd, the heart of summer, a few of those gleanings.
Norka is Akron spelled backwards, and Akron had its own summer soft drink, in several flavors. Mine was the Ginger Ale, best cold, and right out of the local grocery store’s cooler in the ice-cold bottle, with the bottle opener right on the side of the cooler. It went away as a brand sometime in the 1960s, and I miss it. That brings me to say that there was something summer and an ice-cold bottle of Norka or Royal Crown Cola or 7-Up that was different than opening up a can or 2-liter. The thereness and physical shape of it, the evaporating drops of coolness that you could see and touch, the guzzling down of the 12 ounces (they didn’t make 16 oz. bottles then) in maybe one swallow, this all somehow made you feel real and alive and hopeful. Yes, just a bottle of Norka could do that in 1959.
The last day of school before summer vacation was always wonderful–and I mean full of wonder. What would I do the next, the day after that, every day a weekend into itself?
Sometimes we had a NYC trip on the horizon–but more about the path there, later, but NYC deserves its own entry. Remember I was an only child, so a “normal” summer day meant spending a fair amount of it by myself (before my mom quit work to stay home, 6th grade) or at least in my room or outdoors alone. I did not spend it watching TV; rather, I spent it either outdoors playing baseball (occasionally with some neighbor kids—wiffle ball) but more often, just throwing the rubber ball against the garage, or using the PitchBack with a real baseball, all the time doing play by play. When I couldn’t do that, I’d play a baseball board game (Strat-o-matic was best and easiest), and I keep all the stats, and wrote newspaper stories about the heroes of the day, of course, with box scores—which were very hard to line up in my portable, non-electric Smith-Corona typewriter.
Summer mornings were stuffed with anticipation from the moment I woke up, and I have never slept as well in my adult life as I did on those summer days. My radio would be tuned to WIXY 1260 or KYW 1100, and I would awake to a clock radio playing the Top 40 hits. Both of these stations were in faraway Cleveland (just 45 mi.!) but were preferable to the local WAKR 1590 or WHLO 640 that played little rock and roll hits, and a lot of more easy listening ballads. WAKR still had a “hymn for the day” at noon, usually a Tennessee Ernie Ford song that my dad might sing at night himself (”Jesus is Tenderly Calling You Home. . .”). Somehow the mornings seemed fresher, more exuberant, than they ever have since, just in terms of smell (only Wakiki, Galway, Bagara Beach, Ocean Beach, Willow, and Nairobi mornings can approximate the experience!)–but I slept with no air conditioners all through my youth, windows wide open, fans a blazing, and a nice breeze flowing. The safety and sense of freedom and possibility I felt was unparalleled and unsurpassed. Serious decisions about the course of one’s future life: bills, politics, insurance, retirement (!), these did not trouble my heart one minute. All I knew was, it was great to be alive, an Edwards, and in Akron. Oh, and that I wanted to get married some day and have children who could enjoy this kind of summer.
Summers to NYC. I am not sure when my parents and grandparents started going to NYC every summer. I believe my first trip was around 1959, in the backseat of a black and white Plymouth, seat-beltless. I got sick on long trips, so I got to keep the window open in case I might throw up (we had no A/C in a car until the late 1960s). I guess we stopped a lot. We usually drove 6 hrs. to Breezewood, PA, on the PA Turnpike, which is more than half way, and we usually stayed over night at the classily named: “Breezewood Motor Hotel.” (Not yet, “motel.”) Why Breezewood?–it’s the gateway to NYC and D.C., and was known as the “city of hotels.” And this route had the best tunnels; I remember passing through some very ominous tunnels along the way (“Drivers Must Turn On Headlights”), but most of all, the grassy fields around our motel rooms–we’d get two, one for Mom and Pop, and one for me, my dad and mom–and we’d bring our gloves and we played catch past dusk. (See everything returns to baseball.) We’d also eat at Howard Johnson’s restaurants at the mysterious turnpike pull offs known as “service plazas,” the only restaurant I ever knew that sold toy replicas of their own restaurant shape–which was an early stage of my nostalgia for collectible petroliana (gas station stuff). I could go on and on about that. But I won’t.
More to come about spending summers in NYC.

Today is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice in it. He made June 15th. That’s the day of the year (1929) that my dad was born to the Edwards Clan, Hudson, OH. It’s also the day that God joined Joseph Casey and Mary Elizabeth into holy matrimony. Next year at this time, June will also boast Mike and Shelby’s 1st anniversary. So June is Super. Special. Unique in the annals of time.
Dear ones,
Here it is: the day before. The day of anticipation yields to the date of fruition of all plans and dreams. The day before has excitements of its own! Anticipation is itself a God-ordained joy to be treasured in itself. You expect, you envision, you embrace. Then you enjoy.
grilled cheese at Scott’s Dept, Store, and we would stand for hours as each of the contestants (mostly boys but girls could enter) would come from around the world, and each one would get driven in to be introduced in front of Polsky’s Dept. Store by motorcycle escort, and while their names were read aloud, I marveled at the announcement of the city and state (or country) they were from. Kokomo, IN. Grand Junction, CO. Needles, CA. Casper, WY. Bellefontaine, OH. Juneau, AK. and so on.
The scene is that I was on the steps peering down at the swirling mass of dirty water rising every second and so mesmerized that I had only the vaguest sense of danger—when my grandfather (who called me, with affection, “the baby” until i was at least 5 or 6; and so, “get the baby out of here!” i.e., to safety) picked me up with such great force I had only the awareness of sudden and decisive power, the power of rescue, palpable, serene, unrelenting. I will never forget that feeling—breathtaking and reassuring at the same time. I had but a slight sense of peril but a profound sense of salvation. That will ever and always be my metaphor for what Jesus does at just the right moment.
Real people. I am not sure now I can sort out who was who, but I do remember pride in being in a family that, even though they didn’t convene very often, knew what best to do when they did.
But, Justin was in Nairobi, far, far away. And Matt and Tracey in San Diego. So this Memorial Day, we get to celebrate it with him, while our grand celebration of the great Shelby and Michael wedding brings everyone into reunion in less than 10 days!