It was 1968, and on summer evenings, after a hot day of weeding, cutting the lawn and edging around the driveway and sidewalk, we would listen to the boys of summer play baseball on the electronic wonder called a portable transistor radio.
Grandpa would bring his favorite lawn chair out of the garage and set it up under the young oak tree. He would turn the AM radio dial, searching for the sweet Texas drawl of Ernie Harwell, the golden voiced play by play man of the Detroit Tigers.
He would tell us aiming the antennae at Tigers Stadium was how he achieved the best reception. The radio station was less than a mile away, any direction would have worked, but we didn't know.
If we worked especially hard during the day, grandma would send us to the Pop's the corner store to purchase a pint of vanilla ice cream. Most people bought their ice cream by the half gallon but my grandparents were frugal and doled out the ice cream rewards only when well deserved.
My brother and I would run from the store to the house, fearing the frozen treat would melt before we could return, Grandma would scoop some out and put it into a glass then fill it with A&W Root Beer. The sweet cream would float to the top covered in foam from the carbonation in the pop. The summer time favorite called a Root Beer Float.
As we watched the fireflies, their soft green light hypnotically flashing, we would start to doze off. But first grandma would scoop us up, drop us into the bath tub and scrub us clean with Ivory (99 44/100% Pure) soap. She would dress us in hand-me-down pajamas and put us to bed.
I would dream of hitting home runs and fabulous throws from center field to home plate, just in time to tag the runner out and win the game.
It was 100% Pure...summer magic.
Until tomorrow,
Ken
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