The orange steamroller moved slowly through the dirt. Things were getting flattened. The yellow earth-moving tractor, whatever it was called, graded the outer roadway.
“That’s right, it’s a grader”, he thought to himself. There was not much precision in the movement of that yellow beast. As he watched the town and roads take shape in the dirt, a loud blast from an 18-wheeler’s horn made him jump. Sweat rolled down his back as he toiled over the construction site.
He thought that this must be what the adults meant when they said, “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity.” He rolled the ambulance and fire truck into the work zone he had created to add some drama to this boring street corner. Little did he know that, when he was a bit older, this corner would have its share of real drama and ambulances and mortality.
Looking up from his Matchbox collection spread out on the corner of New Hyde Park Road, he waved to the driver of the big supermarket delivery truck. The driver paid him no mind as he blasted his sound waves through the afternoon traffic, on his way to another stop.
“When am I going to grow up?”, he moaned to himself. He so longed to be older so he could drive a truck, be a fireman, or even a spaceman. The space race was all the rage in 1963. John Glenn had circled the Earth 3x in 1962. His imagination ran wild as he pictured himself in that white shiny space suit with the amazing helmet staring back at Earth.
He sighed and went back to his real world of trucks, cars and ambulances as the July afternoon traffic whizzed by. He wondered where everyone was going or coming from and wished he were anywhere but this busy suburban street corner. Thankfully, the stories that he created in this little village of dirt sticks and toys kept him occupied.
Just like any corner anywhere in the world.
But today it was 1963; it was Summer, and off in the distance he could hear the tune that the Mr Softee truck played as it prowled the streets with soft-serve ice cream, Italian ices, and milkshakes of many flavours. But it was too early for Mr Softee to be on his street; it was always later in the evening, so this was just a musical tease for my sweet tooth.
My mother cried
When President Kennedy died
She said it was the communists
But I knew better
Would they drop the bomb on us
While we made love on the beach
We were the class they couldn’t teach
‘Cause we knew better
We were born
Born in the Fifties
Songwriters: Gordon Sumner (Police)
Being referred to as ‘the baby’ always got his goat. It was not the words so much as the way babeeee was pronounced. If he had known how to use the sentence “Go fuck yourself!” it would have been a thought. There is no chance he would have said it. Using curse words, as they were called, would result in having your mouth washed out with soap. He was too young, the babeee, to know if this would happen, but the threat existed. There is no way anyone was going to put a bar of soap in his mouth: Ivory, Palmolive, nada.
Dads with briefcases and ties loosened, young woman dressed for work, and the late afternoon parade of adults began marching homeward. Traffic had been building, but he was lost in creating highways. Roads and tunnels that would take him away from this street corner. In the near distance, a fire horn blared three times. This horn alerted the locals that it was 6 PM.
Dinner was soon to be served. The imaginary village and stories were packed up for another day. Dad would be home, and Mom would have his chilled Manhattan ready for him after a hard day at Western Union. His siblings would be there, and there was love and joy around the table. And a bunch of teasing.
Time moved slowly.
He still craved to be older.
_________________________________________________________________
Time passes. I still aspire to be older.
Just not old.
No rush now.
