When I was a boy growing up in the Bronx, I always checked the New York Daily News for the day's weather forecast.
Back then, the forecasters were about 40% right. I still check the weather in the Bronx till this day out of force of habit. Now we have satellites, Doppler Radar, Accuweather, Ventusky, and the Weather Channel. All combined, they are still about 40% right.
I always loved the summer. Even the dog days. I saw that it hit 102 degrees in the Bronx today. The asphalt could easily make the real feel 112.
It brought back memories.
Keeping cool was more of a challenge in those days than it is today. First of all, the only places that had air conditioning were the movie theatres. Who had the money to go every day? Certainly not the Deegan family. Mom had to make sure there was something for the church in the weekly Sunday envelope. If we had a car, it didn’t have air conditioning.
Our method of keeping the apartment cool, like everyone else in the building, was to keep the lights off, open the front door, and the rear window for “cross ventilation.” Every window was kept wide open. We had a small window fan that pushed hot air around in one room.
The Deegan’s and most of our neighbors stayed in the street for as long as possible before going to bed and sweating like longshoremen.
In the evening, it was sheer fun for us kids. First, one of the dads or an older teenager got a wrench and opened the johnny-pump. That’s a fire hydrant for those who didn’t grow up in New York City.
The water was cold. Really cold, and the force from the johnny-pump could hurl a kid clear across the street.
The cops would show up in their black and white squad car, complete with a cherry on top, shutting off the hydrant with their own wrench. They said if there were a fire, the water pressure wouldn’t be adequate. Not to worry. Mrs. Di Mazzo lived on the fifth floor above the johnny-pump. After the water plug was turned on, she lowered a bucket, which brought the wrench safely into her apartment. When the cops were out of sight, the old lady lowered the bucket, and we were back in business.
Some parents would always bring a couple of huge, ripe watermelons, and my friend’s dad would get the big knife, and everyone would get a share of the juicy fruit. My dad sat on the stoop, drinking his Rheingold beer in his underwear and sleeveless t-shirt. When the men, mostly World War II veterans, got juiced up, they started throwing each other under the Johnny Pump.
The Good Humor ice cream truck would pull up with its frozen treats. We would look at mom, her face said no, and we didn’t ask. There was always some father who either hit the number or was drunk enough to treat all the kids to a cone, ice, or a fudge pop. At ten cents apiece, it was a couple of bucks to make us line up like soldiers for our pick.
We were all so tired that there was no thinking about the heat. We slept through the night, hoping we would repeat the fun the next evening.
To me, it was the best childhood anyone could ask for. That was before 2nd grade and, Father Edward O’ Gorman.
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* This blog is fiction
