Here
Comes
Summer!
(IJgh!)
by Dick Emmons
Unless something is done quickly, school is
going to be let out for the Summer and every parent
knows what that means. It means we are about to enter
upon a three-month period during which the children
lie around and whine, "What can we do?"
"You could whitewash the basement walls pr spade
up the garden," I have been known to offer brightly at
such times. Whereupon the children have looked at me
darkly and continued scuffing holes in the linoleum.
The only satisfactory answer to the question of what
to do with a troupe of kids suddenly paroled by the
School Board is to supervise and guide their activities,
at least for the first couple of weeks. After that, the
average parent will be willing to assume his youngsters
can survive nicely by themselves.
Suggesting acceptable play ideas to a group of modern
children is not quite as easy as falling off a log, but the
sensation is about the same. I tried it last year.
"How about a fast game of hopscotch?" I offered one
afternoon when the hammock in which I lay meditating
suddenly became full of small malcontents.
"Yippee!" yelled our twins Davie and Dickie.
"Hopscotch is kid stuff," drawled Jimmy Fraser, an
8-year-old cowboy who had moseyed by to see what the
boys in the back yard would have.
"Yeah," agreed Davie and Dickie, drawing themselves
up to their full 40 inches and siding with the interloper.
"You be an Indian," Jimmy proposed. "You be Sittin'
Bull and we'll be the good guys who are after you."
"Tell you what," I said, eyeing the hammock, "I'll be
an Indian called Lying Bull and you fellows go down
the block a ways and make your plans."
They were off in three clouds of dust, slapping their
thighs and twirling their water pistols. "This is working
out better than I had dreamed," I thought as I sank back
in the hammock.
Before you could say Pocahontas, however, the gun
slingers were back, reinforced by a huge posse from
neighboring ranches and firing their liquid bolts.
Showing the white feather, I dashed for the garage,
slammed the door, and leaned heavily against it. Every
time I peeked out, Cactus Jim Fraser and his desper
adoes let me have it straight in the warpaint
"Ugh, me want truce!" I called out a bit later, waving
my handkerchief tied to a rake handle out the window.
"You go away. Me ready to fight when you come back."
As soon as they were out of sight I snaked the garden
hose into the garage and sat down cross-legged to await
the second attack. It wasn't long in coming.
When they were in range, I slipped the hose through
the window and, chortling to myself, twisted the nozzle
to release the stream.
"Geronimo!" I cried. "Remember the Little Big Horn!"
A thin trickle of water ran dispiritedly out of the
nozzle and then stopped altogether.
"After him, men! I turned the water off at the faucet!"
I heard Cactus Jim call out. They poured into th garage
M rmpiW their loads at me.
You'll probably navar at a wwUer, more palefaced
Indian anywhere.
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Sum
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J
VI
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'CEROY
Siller ??,:. 5
Family Weekly, May 19. 1957
IS