Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 20

Apple Spider and Cinnamon Doughnuts

I count three types of autumn—witch on the broomstick crossing the moon, fallen leaves, Halloween…raking piles of leaves with a wine scent filling the air…leaf color change and apple picking.

Ripe apples. Apple cider. Let’s take a field trip.

Avon Township and Rochester for fresh cider.

We weren’t the only family to plan a Sunday trip to a cider mill in season. And it didn’t matter to us which one Mom and Dad chose, since we managed a few cider visits before autumn turned too cold or we ran out of luxury funds.

Yates Cider Mill.

A grist mill since 1863, using water from the Yates Dam which was built on the Clinton River for that purpose. After we drank our cup of cider, (which my sisters called “apple spider”) and ate our doughnuts, we walked across the road to savor the water splashing over the low waterfall dam in Clinton Park.

But the best parts of the trip were doughnuts and cider. We tried to savor their pleasure as slowly as possible as we watched cider being made—pouring, chopping, pressing, raking, or so my memory says. Yellow jackets everywhere, since they, too, relished cider.

Paint Creek Cider Mill.

This cider mill was built on the site of an original mill which was constructed in 1835 and powered by water from Paint Creek. The small community of Goodison grew around it. Construction for the cider mill began in 1958 and took ten years to complete, since the owner wanted to use the original mill timbers, and salvaged materials from buildings around the Detroit area.

There was a water wheel, if not as impressive as Yates’, but we looked forward to the plank sidewalk along the building and bushels of apples. There was also a restaurant that Dave and I treated ourselves to as adults.

Goodison Cider Mill.

The cider mill grew from a 1920’s fruit stand and the owner learned the cider business from Harry Yates, who sold the Blankenburgs a cider press. It opened for business in 1965 until 1978, when sold. In 1979, renovations were made and although the mill has changed ownership, it continues to produce the best cider in the area, and still with the original cider press from Harry Yates.

We kids couldn’t watch the process there, as I recall, but the cider was exceptional, made from local apples. The Goodison area was (is?) known for excellent farm produce and orchards.

Naturally, there were others. Blake’s Cider Mill. Various locations across Oakland County, but I’m focusing on my childhood cider mills, and those of my children on Sunday autumn afternoons.

The smell of apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, fresh doughnuts.

The buzzing of yellow jackets, drawn by the juice of crisp apples.

The first vivid sip of tart, spicy, sweet cider from apples picked off local trees. We had three McIntosh trees in our backyard, one of the best apples for cider, pie, applesauce, and eating.

The smell of falling leaves and bright blue skies, the squeak and groan of the wooden water wheel and the splash of water.

I’ve never been more than a lukewarm fan of apple juice, but cider? A drink from the heavenly realm. The difference? Cider includes peels, too, which shows where the flavor is.

Where I live now, there are no rows of sugar maple flames, no piles of leaves from every deciduous tree in the yard, no apple picking or cider season. Yes, I can buy cider in the grocery story, sometimes even non-pasteurized, but it doesn’t have the same bite as standing beside my brothers watching apples turned into magic juice, fighting yellow jackets for doughnut bites, listening to the creak of the mill wheel and wondering what a ride on it would feel like.

For those of you with a cider season in a few months, enjoy a cup for me.

I look forward to hearing your cider memories. Happy sipping!

Thunderstorms on the Front Porch

When we were young, my brother Steve built a rain machine that worked. He spent many hours arranging what he called operating parts in a shoebox—Legos, an old railroad tie, a stick, and other ingredients I don’t recall. Once he set everything in place, he marked “Sun, Rain, Storm” and announced it was ready for testing.

Naturally, no one believed it could work, but within minutes of each setting, the weather shifted to Steve’s marker. Michigan summer weather is changeable, even over a range of hours, but Steve was convinced and the results were eerie. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch it, though, and once, in a scuffle, the box hit the ground.

“It’s ruined,” Steve said, and sighed.

“No, no, you can put it back together,” we said. “Here, we’ve got all the parts.”

He shrugged. “It took too long to build. I can’t do it again.”

Nor could we interest him in trying, so our family was left with the memory of a working rain machine.

Funny, I know it had to rain and storm during school vacation in the summer, but my memories are of warm, sunny days perfect for riding bikes to the Heights, exploring the woods, visiting friends, playing outside.

I once had a contract secretarial job at the American Center tower in Southfield. From the highest levels of the 25-story building, the theory of a predominant wind was verified. The tops of every tree bent in the same direction. That fascinated me, so I tested it in other locations, using the highest levels I could find. Seemed true everywhere.

“So, that’s why thunderstorms always come from the west,” I thought, but that turned out not to be the reason at all. The jet stream—fast air currents—flows from west to east, which explained one of my favorite activities—watching storms blow through from our front porch from the same direction.

When my parents bought 3156 Caroline, the front porch was enclosed with small windows across the sides and on both sides of the front door. After a few years, Dad knocked out the walls between the porch and living room to make room for his grand piano and large family. That was a cheerful room—pale blue walls, dark green carpet, white ceiling. I spent many happy childhood hours listening to Bolero and reading Ray Bradbury in a land of indoor summer. Much later, the walls and front porch were replaced, giving a roofed porch with half walls, open for fresh air.

Perfect for enjoying the neighborhood and thunderstorms.

Married and raising children, Dave and I lived in my childhood home for many years, and a favorite pastime was savoring afternoon or evening storms. First, the birds grew restless as they searched for a waiting place. The wind picked up in short gusts, and if the storm was strong enough, leaves blew backward. Thunder rumbled in the west and clouds gathered.

“Hurry, put the coffee on, it’s coming,” one of us would say. We’d settle in lawn chairs on the covered porch and watch clouds, lightning, and rain move over the woods to our left, up Caroline Street toward Squirrel Road, and beyond. Unless the wind blew rain in, we could stay for most of the show, sipping coffee and enjoying small town pleasures.

I miss that front porch. I miss those years in the Heights. I miss relishing thunderstorms from my safe perch.

If I had Steve’s rain machine, I’d set it to storm in the evening when the air was mild and the coffee fresh, and settle back on that front porch.

Question One—where do birds go in a storm?

Question Two—did you have a front porch?

Hail to Old Avondale

Hot dog, steaming cocoa, and Friday night football.

I rarely attended a football game when I was in high school, being socially shy, but when our children were little, Dave and I looked forward to the Avondale High School Friday night games. His Mom babysat as we walked down Caroline and through the woods to the football field. I knew very little about the game rules, and was more interested in the Band and the cheerleaders, but sang the fight song when the Band led.

“Hail to Old Avondale, cheer them along the way…”

In fact, Mom took pity on Dave by giving me a Dell pocket book called “A Woman’s Guide to Football,” which started out by explaining that football was a sport played by two teams on a field with an oblong ball. Still, by the time I finished, I didn’t have to ask again about downs. Still couldn’t identify clipping as it happened, but no matter. At least, the game meant more when I understood the basics.

We drove to the away games and sat on the smaller bleachers to cheer Coach Brewer’s teams. The years when Steve was quarterback were exciting. We played a few Class A teams, some with (the unethical) scouting outside school boundaries for families willing to move in during high school years. Steve stood tall and firm on the field as he searched for Phil, his receiver, and brushed off offensive front-line players who’d burst through the defensive line as if they were gnats. (“Kon-o! Kon-o!”) Good games, Coach Brewer.

For every home game, I sang the fight song with pride. Still believe that it’s one of the finest for stirring spirit.

A week ago, I became curious about who wrote it. Checked the Avondale sites, but other than listing the words, there were no credits, so I turned to the internet.

We weren’t the only school to use the song, although none of the other school listed the composer, either. After identifying nine other schools across the nation that claimed it, I gave up researching how many others there were. Only one of those nine changed the first line, as we did. The rest used the song as written, “Hail to the Varsity, cheer them along the way…”

Paul Yoder wrote our fight song in 1936.

So much for fame. Paul Yoder, born October 8th 1908 in Tacoma, Washington composed and arranged over 1,400 band pieces, sometimes under pseudonyms because he thought band directors might “get tired of seeing his name so often.” For me, his name was difficult to unearth.

He wrote a winner, though. I can still sing the Yellow Jackets’ fight song as learned in high school. Join me?


Hail to Old Avondale, cheer them along the way.
Onward to victory, may we win again today.
We’ll give a cheer for the varsity,
Long may they reign supreme.
Shout ‘til the echoes ring, for the glory of our team.
Rah! Rah! Rah, Rah, Rah!
For the glory of our team!

Composer: Paul Yoder, 1936

Mom and the Last Passenger Steam Train

I thought it was a summer evening when Mom called us kids to the front door.

“Listen, children,” she said, “to the sound of history. You are hearing a steam engine whistle for the last time on a working train.”

The stirring and haunting sound chugged closer before it faded.

Mom was right, although my memory of the season wasn’t. The Grand Trunk Western passenger locomotive left Detroit Brush Street Station on its final run north to the museum at Durand Union Station on March 27, 1960. No doubt, Mom read about the trip in the Pontiac Press or the Detroit Free Press.

We stood at the door and listened to the unique chord that I associated with night and mystery and Ray Bradbury stories. As named, the steam whistle was created with steam and a lever that opened a valve to let the steam escape to the bell. The double sound we heard came from chambers that sounded simultaneously to produce the familiar train music. Engineers could alter the tone with the valve.

The Heights had a GTW train station from 1879 when we were Amy to the 1960 Auburn Heights station, about four miles east of Pontiac on the Michigan Air Line branch, according to MichiganRailroads.com, the southeast corner of Auburn Hills. We knew the location better as the southwest corner of Primary Street and Grey Road, now the Clinton River Trail where a commemorative sign stands.

Auburn Heights Historical Society President Tyson Brown shared that when he first moved to Auburn Hills in 1998 the train track was still there, and from his backyard on Waukegan Street, he could watch a train roll by occasionally. The tracks were removed later for the Clinton River Rail Trail.

As I sent him emails with my questions about the train station and trains through the Heights, he also answered another I had.

Roat’s Diner, later Stewart’s Diner, looked like a converted railroad car. That style of restaurant was developed from early street carts and lunch wagons into attractive dining cars, “diners” by 1920. One of the designers and manufacturers was Patrick Tierney in the 1920’s, who made them in one piece to be shipped by train to their locations. Most likely, Roat’s Diner was this kind. If you know anything different, we are eager to learn more about it.

And yes, I knew of one actual railroad dining car used as a restaurant in Pontiac, but unfortunately, they went out of business.

My great-grandmother saw more technological changes in her world than I could imagine, from electricity to advances in transportation to television, but each of us can pinpoint moments in our lives when history unfolded into something new. (My grandchildren can’t conceive of a time “pre-internet.”)

Thank you, Mom, for taking the time to make this steam engine moment known to us, and sharing this “last trip.” We stood at the front door screen to hear the song of train history. I miss that lonely, calling sound.

Our best memories do not have to be crucial, lavish, or illustrious to be momentous.

I can still hear that steam train whistle echo through the Heights in my memory.

Days of the Paper Routes and Local News

The largest newspaper in Michigan was created in 1831, but renamed The Detroit Free Press in 1835. Combined with the Sunday edition—the Sunday Free Press—the daily paper gave us national news, outstanding editorials, and my favorite, Sunday comics.

But for local news, families and businesses in Pontiac and the Heights also subscribed to the Pontiac Press (renamed the Oakland Press in 1972), started in 1953. Every evening except Sunday, the papers were delivered by industrious “paper boys” or “paper girls,” and like the mail, “Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds,” (William M. Kendall).

I know, because my brother was one of them.

His route was grueling, about five miles of loops along Grey Road, up North Squirrel, Squirrel Court, Tebeau Court, Parklawn, and back to the College Heights mobile home park every night (except Sunday). Worse were collection nights, since some people would forget, not be home, or promise “catch me next time,” although the paper carriers had to pay the total bill.

I helped him once. The night was cold and miserable, a mixture of sleet and rain, and Mom thought I might make his route easier. I’m not sure I did, but my respect for his labor shot high when I shared the length of the route, and the work it took to deliver each paper, dry, to the expected spot at each house.

Many of you already know this, since many of you mentioned earlier that you were also “paper boys” or “paper girls” for the Pontiac Press.

Readers took the deliveries for granted. My neighbors studied the obituaries, fathers read the want ads and sports pages, mothers read news and local events, and we kids, of course, read the comics.

Everybody read Dear Abby.

The paper covered Pontiac and Auburn Heights, as well as Oakland County, but only Pontiac and the Heights were of interest in our neighborhood.

For our family, the Pontiac Press was also famous for one year’s baking contest. Applicants had to prepare, as I recall, their favorite recipes on site, and the year’s winner was photographed and the recipe printed after the judging. There she stood, in the black and white photo, beaming, while “proudly displaying her tray of delicious nut farts.”

A never-to-be-forgotten article.

But the cookies went on to family fame since my brother included them in his annual Christmas cookie baking, and they were eagerly anticipated and devoured.

To the Pontiac Press and every evening delivery, my highest regard and admiration.

And to the creator of the “delicious nut farts,” our gratitude.

Who Were the Austins?

When I worked at an elementary school in Brooksville, Florida, I commented to several children on the coincidence of their sharing names with local roads and streets.

“That’s my grandparents’ road. They still live there.”

“My family owned that property.”

Seems that history was rolled out in dirt and asphalt around the town and countryside.

I grew up on Caroline Street in the Heights, named for a granddaughter of Samuel J Adams, whose farm encompassed my neighborhood (Oak Grove Subdivision) and a neighboring one (Auburn Heights School Subdivision). The other three streets in our sub were also family members, which made me curious about other local road and street names.

Why, for instance, was Webster Street—named after Aaron Webster (1775-1823), first property owner and settler in what we call the Heights, and who donated the acre used for the local cemetery—changed to Squirrel Road? And where did the Village of Amy’s Second and Principal Streets go (shown on 1896 map)? First Street was renamed Primary, and Washington Street, Waukegan. Was there a Waukegan family? What about the Washingtons?

Until recently, I believed that Adams Road, separating Auburn Hills (Pontiac Township) from Rochester Hills (Avon Township) was named for our Farmer Adams, but turns out that Seymour Adams, who settled in the Troy area in 1822, earned that road.

And who were the Austins?

Our Auburn Hills Historical Society owns artifacts from the Austin farm (including a hand-crank ringer-washer and farm tools), and the farm was located on the “east side of North Squirrel Road, approximately where M-59 is today,” President Tyson Brown says. Why aren’t there any streets or roads or lanes named after this farm?

Many of you have been generous with information and background on the Heights, from shared memories to fruit orchards to traditions. Can you solve these mysteries?

When I moved to Florida, so flat that the highest point is at Britton Hill, 345 feet above sea level, I snickered when I drove past Mountain Lake Road in Hernando County. Until I learned that the road was named for the Mountain family.

Was there a Squirrel family or was the street named for the oak tree residents?

I wrote this post in anticipation of your knowledge of the Heights and our road history. I look forward to background on this fascinating subject. After all, every city or town has a street named Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard, so earning a street name has always been a commemoration, even in the Heights.

Second Cherry Capital of the World

Traverse City is the cherry capital of the world, with 90,000 tons of cherries produced every year, mainly Montmorency or tart cherries.

Auburn Heights was second to that.

I read in the book “Pontiac Township 1927-1983 The End of an Era,” that the Pixley Funeral Home, which I knew as the Harold Davis Funeral Home, was originally the Thatcher family’s 100-acre farm. This included a cherry orchard, the origin of the name of Cherryland Street in the Heights. Maybe some of you know what kind of cherries they grew and sold. I’d wager they were tart cherries.

Not every yard in the Heights had cherry trees. We had two tart cherries (and one banana cherry, sweet and crisp), but cherry picking, canning, freezing, jellies, jams, and pies came from those two trees, with cherry picking not a task I looked forward to in late June.

We had to compete with neighborhood birds for the cherries. Hard and green, at first, then yellow and blushing red, finally, bright red and ripe. By that time, many were poked, knocked down, or eaten by birds, but no matter how greedy the avian population was, there were plenty left for human hands.

We started out enthusiastic enough with our buckets and ladders in the warm summer air, but tired long before all the ripe cherries were harvested. It was worse for Mom in the kitchen, stirring, canning, freezing, baking, with more carried into the house like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice with his buckets of water. My brother loved the cherries and didn’t mind the labor, or didn’t show it. He didn’t whine or complain or try to get out of the work, and savored every tiny fruit. Still does, for that matter.

When we first moved to Caroline Street in 1959, we kids were flabbergasted at the fruit trees in the back yard—cherry, apple, plum, pickling pear, Bartlett pear, banana cherry—and the rhubarb that grew along basement walls in our neighborhood, blackberries and raspberries, and our black walnut tree. The Garden of Eden. It never occurred to me that paradise required climbing and picking, raking and canning.

I’d finished my eternity of cherry picking one afternoon and was liberated to visit a friend on another street. When I got to her house, she promised that we’d have the fun we discussed “after a small favor to my Mom.” You guessed it. Picking ripe cherries from their trees.

We kids moaned more at the chore of raking fallen pears, since they squashed and were covered by ants and hornets, but the tiny cherries required longer hours of work.

Oh, to be able to prop the ladder now and pull off ripe cherries. To be able to haul buckets into the kitchen and watch Mom boil them for clean jars, or roll out dough for piecrust. Like in the play “Our Town,” if I could travel back in time, I’d try to convince that young girl that those days and moments were magic and to be treasured.

For every cherry tree in the Heights, then and now, I salute the bounty of fruit and time and memories.

Did you have cherry trees?

Our Neighborhood Thoroughbreds

“Horses lend us the wings we lack.” - Pam Brown

“I am still under the impression that there is nothing alive
quite so beautiful as a horse.” - John Galsworthy

My friend Kay and I were horses the summer we were ten. We galloped up and down Caroline Street, manes and tails flowing in our imaginations, and fought over the best horse names. In fact, I irritated my brother by pawing the ground and bobbing my head and snorting in response to questions.

So, I was ripe for the allure of the Bridge’s horse farm.

Long before the elegant Adams Ridge Subdivision set out one sidewalk, the property was the home and horse farm of the Bridge family.

The white fencing around the property identified horses, as well as the oval indoor training track. I was as fascinated by the clubhouse as I was the sumptuous home (with an indoor swimming pool, unheard of at that time in my experience) which included peacocks. But the true attractions for me were the huge, wide open barns that housed stables of thoroughbreds—stallions, mares, and colts.

My friend Rosemary and I made periodic visits, against parental permission, at least in my case, but horses were too much of a magnet for a preteen girl to resist. The grooms and stable hands were soft-spoken gentlemen who tried to discourage our visits, but were too polite to be rude. We were warned to stay away from the horses, though, which we did. Admiration was enough.

There’s a perfume of horse and hay and straw that I still find appealing, and the barns were permeated with it. The horses were, of course, gorgeous, and colts of any age adorable.

Sometimes there were mares, or mares and colts in the pastures. Heaven to us.

Of course, we knew that we were not supposed to be there, so avoided the front side with the house, although we occasionally peeked into the indoor practice track a time or two, convinced that we’d see a world-famous racer hard at work. I didn’t realize at the time that the horses were harness racers. To me, all thoroughbreds were ridden, which I dreamed of doing.

We did learn that the farm was for breeding, which explained the number of mares and colts, but that was just as fascinating, since we knew that fame awaited the family with any birth.

Besides, horses are beautiful.

We didn’t make pests of ourselves, visiting only occasionally, but I clearly recall our last trip to the horse farm.

As usual, we followed our route from her house to the fence, hopped over halfway across the pasture, and headed for the barns, talking and laughing, when Rosemary said, “What’s that pounding sound?”

Horses. Galloping and thundering toward us, the herd of mares and frightened, whinnying colts, which spurred their mothers to more fury and speed.

We’d spooked the mares.

The first thing we did was look for the nearest fence to escape from our position.

The sound grew louder and the horses gained on us. I don’t think I ever ran so fast in my life, before or since, but we were well aware of the danger of being trampled.

As we reached the white fence, I grabbed the top and hauled myself over. Beside me, Rosemary sailed without touching one plank. Just behind me, mares crashed into the fence, thankfully strong enough to hold them back.

Rosemary was white and shaking.

“What are you laughing at?” she demanded. "We nearly died.”

I knew that, but couldn’t get over her miraculous flight.

“You never touched the fence,” I said. “That jump was incredible.”

She didn’t believe me. Her panic was so intense, she hadn’t remembered how she got over.

That was enough excitement, even for my horse-crazy self. We never returned to wander the barns and admire the calm dignity of the thoroughbreds.

The memory of the earlier visits is still with me, though.

In spite of the financial disaster later, the dismantling of the house and barns and property, and even the beauty of the current neighborhood, nothing can erase those earlier days of equine luxury.

Whenever I inhale the warm, sweet, fresh aroma of horses and hay, I remember the Bridge's horse farm.

A House That Captivated You for Any Reason

Saw a photograph of Mrs. Potbury’s house in “Pontiac Township (1827-1983) The End of an Era – A New Beginning” (available through Auburn Hills Historical Society, by the way, a fascinating read with pictures). The snapshot of 312 S. Squirrel Road was taken when the house was the Adams’ farm tenant house. At that time, thanks to my brother, my niece, and the historical society, I learned that Squirrel Road was “Adams Road,” and the area was the Henry J Adams’ farm, while my neighborhood streets were named for his granddaughters (Caroline, Margaret) and wife (Bessie), and Henrydale after himself? (His son was named John.)

Anyway, that farm tenant house was later the famous child-friendly home of Mrs. Potbury, who told Bible stories and sold you pots of seedlings that were affordable for any child. We trailed to her house on lunch breaks from Auburn Heights Elementary School, always welcome.

Her house was built in 1862 and Zillow mentions that the Adams’ children were born there. In the tenant house?

Fascinating, anyway, which made me think about houses, besides my childhood home, which drew me and made me curious to see the inside and learn more.

Besides your own home, name a house that fascinated you as a child for any reason.

Extra points, if that house is in the Heights.

My magnet was the Hall house across the road from us on Caroline Street.

3147 Caroline was a large, two-story frame house with a cool front porch, shady maple trees, a side yard, an apartment over the garage that I longed to explore, and a mysterious and beckoning garden in the back. I could see the trellis from the sidewalk, and dreamed about walking through it into enchantment.

As a child, I thought it possible that when I was old enough to have a job, the Halls would let me rent that delectable garage apartment. Since I’d never seen the inside, I was able to design it as I pleased.

Once a year, at Halloween, I could peek into the living room of the house at trick-or-treat time, and was fascinated by the tiny rooms and number of doors, since the house had been constructed to manage cold winters with its 12 rooms and 5 bedrooms.

Never did the house feel haunted, in spite of its age and size. I never entered the garden, although I’m not sure why now, since it must have been a temptation. Maybe I feared the wrath of Mom for disturbing the old couple.

The Halls were, to me, ancient, but they couldn’t have been at that time. We respected them, though, and years later, when the last one died, their belongings were arranged on their front lawn for an estate sale. My heart ached that rich, full lives could end up as fragments for sale to strangers.

I knew nothing about the couple or the family, but their house was coveted.

We kids were convinced that the Hall’s house had to be the oldest on Caroline Street, but actually our house (Evans’) was built in 1928, as was Vicki’s at 3196 Caroline. (And I don’t know about Vicki, but we definitely had a ghost or two in our house that played the piano, moved up and down the stairs, and showed herself at least twice. And the fruit cellar was s-p-o-o-k-y. Maybe more about that another time.)

But I digress from the delicious Hall house. My brothers and I would debate whether houses were summer houses or winter/Christmas houses. The Hall’s house was summer—shade, leaves, green grass, garden, front porch, and room to dream. I used the mysterious garden in more than one fantasy story.

Maybe it’s a blessing that I never explored the yard as a kid. I’m free to create the Hall’s house, yard, and garage apartment any way I choose today.

All right, your turn.

Which house, besides your own, fascinated you as a kid, and why?

School's Out for Summer

“School’s out for summer…”

Mr. Cooper, you captured a magic moment.

Everything we enjoyed about growing up in the Heights was amplified during the school-free summer. We’ll save the new shoes, new clothes, and fresh stationery supplies at the beginning of September for another time. (My toes still curl with delight at new pens, notebooks, stationery, and new shoes.)

I shared some memorable pastimes with my sister, and we had as many in common as we had personal favorites:

• Riding bikes around the neighborhood, up and down our street, or to the Heights downtown. I pretended the houses were various shops and businesses. One felt like a real estate office, another like a bank. The sidewalk was, of course, a one-way road, and the Caroline Street was Woodward Avenue.

• For my sister, backyards up and down the street were magic lands, parentally off limits which made them more enchanted. Some had fences across the back or sides, usually leaning and old, no barrier to great explorers.

• The slope on Caroline Street (smoothed out in later years) was the perfect place to practice one-handed bike riding. I was convinced that we reached racecar speeds by the end of the hill. You had to watch out for the occasional dog who considered you fair game to chase, cars leaving their driveway or coming up behind you, and any need for a sudden stop.

• Our fire whistle sounded every evening at six o’clock, the time to return home for dinner. On the first Saturday of the month, the fire station tested the tornado whistle, an eerie sound, and easily identified on stormy afternoons when the sky turned pewter and yellow, the wind stilled, and we listened for the dreaded train engine sound of an approaching tornado. I do recall one or two that swept by, but no train sounds. Glad to learn recently that it makes no difference which windows you close or open, since I never remembered which invited damage and which protected you.

• Of course, not every day was sunny and warm, even though it seems that way in my memory. Rain brought out WORMS, necessary for gardens, useful for local fishing trips to the Clinton River bank, but with a smell never to be forgotten. No one wanted to step on them, either. “Eee-yuck….”

• By summertime, every house had installed screens and stored the storm windows necessary for winter freezes. The feel and scent of fresh-cut lawns drifting through the rooms was a perfume like no other.

• There is no dusk in Central Florida where I live now, but we had a delightful twilight in the Heights, much appreciated by us kids. Adults, too, since I recall lawn mowing sounds before dark. That was the time for communal games. My brother and his friends played a bicycle game they called “Midnight Marauders,” which consisted of racing up and down the street making clandestine plans. “Statues” was popular in the Shank’s front yard (after they moved up the street next door to us). “Red Rover, Red Rover, let --- come over” was another. “Hide and Seek” and “Sardines” were saved for daytime, inside or out.

• Summer had a song of its own, too. Not only robins singing, but Detroit Tiger baseball games with George Kell and Ernie Harwell, voices I will never forget, along with Ernie’s “…and a gentleman from Muskegon caught that ball,” the era of the almighty Al Kaline and my pre-teen crush, Rocky Colavito. Lawn mowers in the afternoon or early evening. Planes from a local airport or the shocking “breaking the sound barrier,” sonic boom from jets high overhead (until 1973 when it became illegal, and the jets flew higher.)

• Paper wasps, toads and frogs and garter snakes, mourning doves and grackles and starlings, hoot owls with their mournful trills, crickets and spring peepers (for a while) and the swamp music from the Second Woods. (A toddler next door to us for a brief time ate the peepers as fast as she could pull them from the trees, and before her horrified mother could pull them from her mouth.) Cardinals. Robins, with a melody as beautiful as any bird, but a tendency to sound like they’re practicing their notes. Dogs barking up and down the streets with the six o’clock whistle. The happy sound of kids playing…or arguing.

Yes, I miss the sounds and tastes and feel of summer in the Heights. Didn’t it seem to last almost forever before the cold-clench announcement of the school year?

What was your favorite summer pastime and where did you live?