"Summer Days Gone By," by Tom Poland

Tom Poland, age 8

I'm posting a column written by a professional writer based in Columbia, S.C., who also happens to be my dad. His "Across the Savannah" column appears regularly in his hometown newspaper, "The Lincoln Journal," the newspaper for Lincolnton, Ga. This particular column caught my eye because, like my dad, I spent every waking hour playing outdoors during summer vacation. Whether in my grandparents Athens, Ga., creek swimming or catching minnows with a strainer and bits of bread, climbing the magnolia tree behind my greatgrandparents home, or spending hours at the pool with my dad and sister, I was brown as a berry by summer's end and stocked with a fresh supply of summer memories to carry me through the school year.

My kids attend year-round school here in Wake County, and I often wish they could have a long summer break filled with carefree, schedule-free outdoor fun like my sister and I did. We fortunately have a small creek behind our house that the kids have made my husband and me promise never to move away from, and we spend a great deal of our track-out time visiting family so our kids can experience the outdoors we grew up loving. As a matter of fact, our kids have all climbed the same magnolia tree I used to climb, and have visited the creek I used to enjoy. The only difference is their feet aren't worn enough to scurry down the creek path barefoot from my grandparents' house, like mine used to be. And you know, that's really too bad.

So here is "Summer Days Gone By" by Tom Poland. I hope you enjoy it.

Across The Savannah
Summer Days Gone By
By Tom Poland

With winter’s end near, some nostalgia might get us through the last few cold days. Was there a more exhilarating high than school’s last day? Stepping off the school grounds for the last time, you felt weightless. The trees seemed greener, the air fresher, and the sunshine more liberating than ever. You faced a summer of freedom, sunshine, and adventure.

Back then, we didn’t have malls, fun parks, and electronic games galore. We were left to our own devices. When I wasn’t reading The Hardy Boys and Reader’s Digest, the summer break meant green, leafy days exploring the woods behind home. Sure there were trips and vacations to look forward to but the long summer days with time to burn were the best. Every day was a Saturday and every day was an adventure.

Back then, a boy’s best friends were his bicycle, BB gun, and slingshot, and I was no exception. So armed, I could conquer most anything, especially a Campbell’s tomato soup can. Hearing a BB ding against a can was music to my ears and popping a Coke bottle? Well, that was big game, though that broken glass was not good.

Armed with packs of copper-clad BBs, my Daisy, and a pouch of gravel for my slingshot, I roamed the woods. The ultimate quarry were the red-and-white fish bobbers hung in trees along the banks of the old manganese mine pond on the property. I’d try my luck fishing, too. Some of my best moments as a boy took place with an old Zebco reel and a fiberglass rod in my hands.

I spent a lot of time alone as a boy, but I don’t recall being bored. There was always plenty to do. Making a fort from saplings and boughs provided a base camp from which I’d wander into deeper woods. Quietly exploring the banks of the old manganese mine pond provided glimpses of Wood Ducks and Great Blue Herons, and shiny, slithering snakes. I explored with caution.

There were days when my explorations turned up finds worthy of the Discovery Channel. One day I stumbled across a strange box with wires and gizmos unlike anything I’d seen. A crashed UFO? No. Turns out it was the business end of a weather balloon, fallen from the heavens. On another occasion I came across the crumbling remnants of an old still. Whether it had been abandoned or raided, I never knew.
Some days I found real treasure: arrowheads. Even as a boy, I could grasp the fact that the last hand touching these chiseled, symmetrical stones belonged to the true Native American. Pottery shards, too. I was reaching back in time and walking in Cherokee and Creek Indian’s footsteps. About lightning bug time, I’d ease back home, clutching a newfound arrowhead like it was a $100 bill.

Watching fireflies at dusk never proved less than enchanting, and catching them and putting them in a mayonnaise jar was not some myth dreamed up by a writer. Handling lightning bugs gave my hands a strange musty, though not unpleasant, smell.

Insects played a big role in my summer entertainment. During those sun-splashed days, I’d catch June bugs and tie sewing thread to their legs and let them buzz around my head, like some airliner waiting its turn to land. Down on Granddad Poland’s farm, I’d search for wasp nests to knock down. One careless moment, and a red wasp would nail me good. For a small boy in Lincoln County, that kind of danger provided a thrill akin to hunting Cape Buffalo in Africa.

Up near Pistol Creek at Granddad Walker’s place, my cousins and I would cut bamboo and fashion peashooters from bamboo sections. We were never bored and nothing we did required batteries. Heck, if it had, we’d been out of luck. Money was short but the best thing about summers back then was the fact that you didn’t need the green stuff.

Looking back, I guess I’m lucky to be alive and have both eyes. Today’s kids have to wear all kinds of safety gear. Riding a bike means you need one of those helmets that makes you like those magpies, Heckle and Jekyll. Shooting a BB gun means protective goggles, making you look like the creature from the Black Lagoon, and catching lightning bugs and June bugs probably requires an environmental permit, as would damming creeks.

What danger I was in. I was lucky to survive those golden summer days, but I was even luckier for another reason. The summers between the first grade and the ninth grade were some of the best days of my life. The grueling two-a-day football practices had yet to arrive, and I’d never heard of a place called Vietnam. I was green and innocent.

Had I been able to look forward into time, I’d seen the sad day coming when I no longer had time for the woods of my youth. Nor, it seems, would many of today’s boys. The modern brand of boy prefers to watch TV and play high-tech games. How many boys today, I wonder, can make slingshots from an old inner tube, a shoe tongue, and a forked Dogwood limb? Not many I’d wager. Maybe woods and slingshots are considered toxic in these sterile times when people are all agog about eliminating risks from life.

Not long ago, the wooded days of my youth returned by proxy. I was thrilled to see my grandsons playing in the creek and trees behind their home. They even had a small cave to explore though going into it is off limits, their dad’s wise rule.

No, we didn’t have Gameboys, Nintendos, and a summer beset with planned activities when I grew up in Lincoln County. We did have Zebcos, BB guns, slingshots, woods, fishponds, and creeks. We had to find our own entertainment as best we could, and looking back, I’m convinced we’re better off for it. We were connected to the land and nature in ways most kids today are not.


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