Summer Games

The storm having left us without electric, transported my mind back to the days of no TV, AC, showers, just a bathtub, and without computer games.

Dusk was descending over the neighborhood as the heat from the summer sun was taking its leave from the cement walk and bricks. With my glass jar and lid with three holes, I was ready. The screen door banged as I flew outside. Lightning bugs emerged from their hiding place and I had mastered the art of catching them. Johns Hopkins was studying their lights and needed specimens.  I was going to catch the most in this summer game.  One had to be quick, watch for the blink of light, run as fast as possible, and then swoop up under them as they lifted for flight. The only puzzle was why your hands smelled when you caught them. Then I moved on to the next flash of light.

There was no moon— a perfect night for playing red light green light. Crouching in the bushes, I hid from them all. Our neighborhood had upped the game to teams hiding during the yelling of green light and releasing those who had been caught.  Stopping when the other team, of course, yelled red light. This time no one had found me. It was up to me to steal into base and free my team. They all had been caught. I could hear my sister yelling that I better not get caught. All the kids in the neighborhood were involved, but the boys were rough. When they caught you, they threw you to the ground or grabbed your arm. I could hear my heart beating.  Could those looking for me hear it? I tried to breathe quietly, but in the still night, it was impossible. I had to run before someone heard me breathing.

“Green light.”

I bolted. Air whooshed past my hot, clammy skin. The keeper had his back to me as I hurled to the base, touched my sister’s arm and then another one’s hand to free them. Girls screeched and the chase continued.

When our feet hit our home porch, we heard more screams. My sister and I dashed to the door. Daddy was scurrying around the house with a broom in his hand chasing Mother who had a pillow on top of her hair.

“Girls, cover your heads. It’s a bat. He’s in the house. Daddy tried to kill it on me!”

“Where is he?” I hollered.

“Open the door. If I can’t kill him, I will chase him out of here,” ordered Daddy.

“Cover your hair. They like to nest in your hair,” shrieked Mother as she scampered around the dining room with her head buried in a pillow.

My sister sprinted for another pillow as I darted to hold the door open hoping the bat would not fly into my hair as he flew past into the night.

 “He soared out the door,” I yelled with relief in my voice. “That’s a game I don’t want to play again.  I’m so hot.  Let’s bathe in the basement sanitary tubs and sleep there too, where it’s cool.”