There’s a heat dome covering the South. Clear blue skies means another day without rain. The once lush soft green grass has now all turned crunchy brown. There’s no rain in sight. This will go down as the hottest July on record. Could the global warming myth actually not be a myth after all?
Just walking from the car to the house will make you start to sweat. I should know. I did. When The Wife heard me complaining that it was really hot outside, her answer to my comment was direct and to the point.
“You’ve lived in Georgia all of your life. Complaining about it being hot during the summer is like folks at the North Pole complaining because it’s cold. You’ve got a snowball’s chance it’s going to be cold down here during July.”
I smiled and said, “That’s exactly what I’m hoping for – a snowball’s chance. Thanks for the great idea. I’ll be right back.”
The Wife shot me an inquisitive look and then ventured inside for some air-conditioning. Turning around, I got back into the car and started on my mission. It was time to beat the heat the Flamingo Street way.
I first thought about finding a less traveled street with a cul-de-sac at its end outfitted with a fire hydrant, just like Flamingo Street. Whenever the temperature on Flamingo hit 90, the fire hydrant in front of Old Mrs. Crabtree’s house somehow magically came on. When asked, none of us kids actually knew how such a thing could happen. At least, that’s what we told the police and firefighters when they finally arrived.
After being a firefighter for over 27 years and now retired, I know turning on hydrants for some summertime fun isn’t the right way to cool off. I decided to try something else to beat the heat. I had to find a creek.
Arctic Blue was the nickname given to the bend in Cripple Creek behind Mrs. Crabtree’s house. The rocky bed filtered out all debris and sand, leaving clear water to fill the deep bend in the creek. Fed by natural springs, the waters were always freezing, even in the middle of summer. Whether it was a quick dive off a rope swing, an unsuccessful leap across using a bike, or a double dog dare, the results were always the same: stay in too long and you’d come out blue. Just like if you went swimming at the Arctic.
A visit to three different creeks in our small town and not one was found to have a bend with deep clear water. The creeks were all also posted with signs: “No swimming or fishing allowed.” But none were posted with “No diving off rope swings.” I had babysitting in the morning and our two granddaughters would wonder why their Big Papa was in jail so I thought better of it. Besides, there was still one last chance to cool off like we did back on Flamingo Street: A snowball’s chance.
Growing up on Flamingo, we didn’t have a self-defrosting refrigerator. A thick layer of ice would collect on the inside walls of the freezer section and it had to be chipped out at least once, sometimes twice, a month. During the summer, Mom collected the chipped ice and squished it into balls, filled coffee cups, and added vanilla, grape, or cherry flavoring. That was a tasty way to cool off.
Lucky for me there’s a new business opened downtown on Main Street selling New Orleans-style shaved ice. After paying $4, I was soon cooling off by enjoying a large cherry snowball. Even though they didn’t chip their ice off the inside of an old non-defrosting refrigerator, it was still mighty tasty, almost as good as Mom’s.
Fifty years ago my mom invented Flamingo Street-style shaved ice. Way back then, at $4 each, she could’ve made a fortune. Unfortunately none of us kids had any money so we gave her lots of hugs and kisses.
Love, the most valuable thing you can give someone else — guess that made her rich after all.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
