I
turned eight in the summer of 1974.
That summer, I climbed trees at the park
and finally conquered my fear of catching a baseball. Before then, I mostly played
catch with a rubber ball or a tennis ball. A hardball coming at my face scared
the living shit out of me.
I had a transistor radio with a strap on
it. At night, I hung it from my bedpost. During the day, it was the perfect
size to fit in the satchel on my bike.
My bike was a red Schwinn. I considered it
a little boy’s bike and desperately wanted something bigger and cooler. It had
no speeds and no hand brakes. It was an old-fashioned coaster-brake bike my
parents gave me for my sixth birthday.
I dreamed of a Schwinn with five speeds and
a banana seat. I finally got one for my tenth birthday.
Six weeks later, somebody stole it while I
was inside Kresge buying baseball cards. My dad made damn sure I understood
that the thief may have stolen the bike, but it was my fault for not double
locking it.
That lesson of the stolen bike stuck
with me for the rest of my youth, but that was the summer of 1976.
The summer I want to chalk about today is
1974, the summer I turned eight. Of all the memories from that year, the one
that sticks with me more than climbing trees, baseball games and bikes was a
major change in my life…
My
bedtime moved from 7:30 to 8:00.
Turning eight bought me another half hour of
daylight. That was a big damn deal for an eight-year-old.
From kindergarten through second grade,
7:30 was bedtime. It didn't matter that other kids were still outside. It
didn't matter that there was daylight coming through the windows. When 7:30
arrived, I was done for the day. Finally that summer I got to stay up until eight.
Last night, I took a shower and climbed into
bed. It was eight o'clock, and it was the last night of the summer with an
eight o'clock sunset.
Fifty-two summers ago, eight o'clock meant
I had finally been granted another half hour of childhood. Last night, eight
o'clock meant this old bastard was ready for bed.
Somehow, without noticing that it happened,
life had come full circle.
In the summer of '74, my dad hounded me to
brush my teeth and wash my face. My mom would come into my room, tuck me under my
NFL blanket, kiss me on the forehead and say, “Good night Pumpkinhead.” Then
she would remind me to say my prayers.
The moment the door closed, I would shorten
the Hail Mary’s and reach for my transistor radio and turn on WLS.
Under my nightlight, in the fading dusk of a
Chicago summer, I would listen to Elton John, Roberta Flack and Paul McCartney
until I fell asleep. Later, my mom would quietly sneak back into my room and
turn off the radio so I wouldn't kill the batteries.
Last night, an hour or so after I fell
asleep, George quietly came into my room. He turned off my light. Then he
turned off my radio and pulled the blanket over me.
… And
there it was. The whole damn thing. A lifetime contained in the click of a
switch.
One day my mommy was standing beside my bed,
turning off my radio and making sure her Pumpkinhead was tucked in for the
night...
Then came school and jobs and girlfriends
and marriage and babies and taxes and ballgames and heartbreaks and birthdays
and funerals and all those ordinary Tuesdays that we foolishly assume will keep
coming forever.
…And now my oldest son is standing beside
my bed, turning off the light and radio that his Oldman forgot to turn off.
It happens that quickly.
We spend most of our lives in the enormous
space between being tucked in and someday needing someone to tuck us in again.
When we were young, we couldn’t wait to
stay up later. Another half hour felt like freedom.
Then somewhere along the way, after all of
those summers disappeared, eight o'clock is time for night-night all over again.
The
streetlights still come on at dusk. The sun still goes down. The radio still
plays, but the person reaching for the switch has changed.
There are a lot of moments between childhood
and the autumn years. Most of them pass without ceremony. Most of the time we
don't realize the important ones when they are happening.
Maybe that is what makes getting older both
painful and beautiful. If you are lucky, there is someone there at both ends.
Someone who loves you enough to come back
into the room after you have fallen asleep. Someone who turns off the lights. Someone
who turns off the radio.
Someone
who makes sure you are tucked in for the night.
In 1974, it was my mommy and last night,
it was Georgie.
Sunday Funday you Chalkheads….
Go play
catch, climb a tree and reach for the gusto that today brings and ignore the
sunset time that I chalked today…
