Chapter 2: Summer Vacation

Thursday, June 7, 1984. 11:30 am

The first two disappointments came on the last day of school, a Thursday. It was only a half day, just long enough to get our report cards and tie up any loose ends. Then we all sat around for two hours, gabbing about our plans for the summer or making the rounds of the school saying "au revoir" to the teachers we wouldn't be seeing any more.

Arriving home at lunchtime, I checked the mailbox, as I had been doing for almost three weeks now, for my ant delivery from Uncle Milton Industries. Rather than the box or padded envelope I was hoping for, there was instead a postcard. The front featured a colorful photo of a boy and girl observing the activity in an ant farm. I turned it over and with growing dismay I read:

"Well," I thought dejectedly, "I've already waited half my life. What's two more months?" I was disappointed, but I wasn't going to let a little thing like this ruin my summer! I put the postcard in the back pocket of my jeans and headed for the kitchen to make my lunch. On the counter was a note from my mother with suggestions for my lunch menu, which I ignored in favor of my usual bologna and cheese sandwich. The note also instructed me to see if the Morrisons needed any help around the house.

The prospect of spending the afternoon working for the Morrisons brought mixed feelings. Who wants to spend the first day of summer vacation working? On the other hand, the chores they usually assigned were far from back breaking, and they were both generous– Mrs. Morrison with ice cold lemonade and snacks, and Mr. Morrison with stories of his adventures in the Marines– and they always gave me a few dollars for my labor as well. Even better, I thought as I changed into an old T-shirt, I could find out when Charlotte was coming for her yearly visit! No, a little thing like an empty ant farm wasn't going to ruin my summer.

I practically skipped across the street and rang the doorbell. "Hi, Mrs. M," I greeted as she opened the door. "I understand you and Mr. M have some things I can help with around the house?" I was always Sunday Church Picnic polite with the Morrisons, even when I wasn't hoping to glean information about upcoming visits from their granddaughter. They were genuinely nice people. They were the kind of people who bring out the best in everyone around them. "Salt of the Earth," to use my grandmother's terms, but at the time I really didn't understand what that meant.

Mrs. Morrison was a spry sixty-something, much like my grandmother. She invited me in and, as usual, offered me a glass of milk and some cookies– chocolate chip, fresh out of the oven, still warm and gooey. What better way, I thought, to ply a sweet old lady for information than with effusive praise for her baking skills?

"Mrs. M, you have outdone yourself," I stated a few minutes later, draining my glass and dabbling the corners of my mouth with a napkin. "Those cookies are truly amazing." Pushing my luck a bit, I added, "And that milk must have come from a very happy cow!"

"Such a charmer," she grinned. "And you've grown! I bet the girls are falling all over themselves for a Friday night date with you." She had caught me off guard with that comment! I blushed, and in an attempt to stammer out a reply that I wasn't as popular as all that, I almost missed what she had said next.

"Beg pardon ... could you repeat that?" I hoped and prayed I had heard wrong.

The sparkle was gone from her smile, and her shoulders slumped. "I said," she started, her voice catching, "That it's a shame Charlotte won't be here to see how much you have changed this past year."

"She ... won't?" I repeated. That same sinking feeling from earlier was back, only now it was ten times worse.

"I'm so sorry, dear. I know how much you always look forward to her summer visit ... but her church youth group sponsored a trip to Montreal. She won't be spending the summer with us this year."

The rest of my visit with the Morrisons had passed in a blur. I raked dead leaves from between the rosebushes and spread fresh mulch for about an hour but my heart wasn't in it and it showed. I missed a lot of leaves and the mulch was unevenly spread, with high piles in some areas and barren patches in others. I was running on autopilot and didn't notice what an awful job I was doing until Mrs. M took pity on me and told me to call it a day around 2:30. She handed me a five dollar bill and asked if I could come back the next day to help clean the gutters. I refused the money.

"Hang on to that," I told her. "I'll earn it tomorrow." That got me a smile.

"I'm sure you will, dear."

That evening I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, my mood swinging from despair and anger to defiance and glimmering hope– Despair at having my plans for a wonderful summer snatched away; anger at my inability to snatch them back; defiance with my remaining plans for biking and hanging out with my friends; The hope was that just maybe Uncle Milton's supplier would come through with my order; and, just maybe, that Charlotte would still spend at least a few days with her grandparents after returning from her trip. Before falling asleep, I resolved to put my disappointments aside and have a good summer– no matter what!

Friday, June 8, 1984. 6:00 AM

As much as I wanted to sleep in on my first full day of summer vacation, I dragged myself out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn. I poured a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, then shuffled across the street with a rake and my work gloves to fix the travesty that I had created with the mulch the day before. Starting up the sidewalk, I admired the immaculate lawn and freshly painted deep green shutters that matched the garage door. The Morrisons' house was a single story "rancher," as were about half the homes in the neighborhood. The rest of the homes, like mine, were "split levels," with the bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs; kitchen, living room and dining room on the main level, and the garage below the bedrooms.

The Morrisons were both retired. Mr. M had been a Marine, serving for over 30 years including a stint as a Drill Instructor. Mrs. M had been a schoolteacher and followed Mr. M wherever his assignments took him. They had nick-nacks and souvenirs from all over the world displayed throughout the house. Being retired, they had an abundance of free time to keep up with the care of the house and landscaping. With Dad away, Mom working and me at school, we hadn't been spending much time on our house or yard and it showed. I resolved to rectify that over the summer.

I dug in to my work, so to speak, and had things pretty much fixed to an acceptable standard by about 8:30. I was just finishing up when I heard someone coming around the corner. I looked up to see Mr. Morrison, sipping from an oversized coffee mug and grinning at me. "Thanks, Champ," he greeted, using the nickname he had called me for as long as I could remember. "You just won me two bucks."