July and August Were Like no Others

New York City Kids, 1950s

Summer, 1950s New York City

July
by Susan Hartley Swett

When the scarlet cardinal tells
Her dream to the dragon fly,
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees,
And murmurs a lullaby,
It is July.

When the tangled cobweb pulls
The cornflower's cap awry,
And the lilies tall lean over the wall
To bow to the butterfly,
It is July.

When the heat like a mist veil floats,
And poppies flame in the rye,
And the silver note in the streamlet's throat
Has softened almost to a sigh,
It is July.

When the hours are so still that time
Forgets them, and lets them lie
'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink
At the sunset in the sky,
It is July.

When each finger-post by the way
Says that Slumbertown is nigh;
When the grass is tall, and the roses fall,
And nobody wonders why,
It is July.

July and August were Like No Other

Everyone I know is astonished that it's already the beginning of July. There's something about the turn of the calendar that brings both surprise and memory. For me, the month of July is forever wrapped in childhood and in the soft, golden light of summer in New York City.

Growing up in the city during the 1950s meant that school ended on June thirtieth. The very next morning, July first, summer truly began. The classroom doors had closed, and the world outside opened wide. For city kids like us, summer vacation wasn’t about exotic destinations or expensive camps. It was about freedom. It was about the street.

Back then, there were so few cars on the road that traffic wasn't an issue. The street belonged to us. The boys played handball against the walls of buildings, and the girls played jump rope on the sidewalks, and we chalked in stickball diamonds on the pavement. Sometimes we played punchball, and other times we just made up games on the spot. There were always enough kids around to make a game happen.

We lived in walk-up apartment buildings with no elevators, which meant our legs grew strong from climbing. We heard whispers of faraway, mysterious places like Florida, or the mountains of New York and Pennsylvania, but they seemed like fairy tales. Our world was New York City. Our domain was the neighborhood. What mattered most was that we had each other and that we were having fun.

Yankee Stadium

Baseball was another part of the magic. We’d sometimes make it to Yankee Stadium or the old Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan. Now and then, a trip to Brooklyn gave us the chance to see the Dodgers. But when we couldn’t be there in person, we watched on television. I still remember the grainy black-and-white broadcasts, and the way we’d gather around the screen, leaning in as if we could step into the game.

Looking back now, I see that it was a quiet time. We rarely heard about crime, and violence seemed like something that lived far away from us. There was a sense of safety that wrapped itself around our days like a soft breeze. It was, in many ways, a time of innocence.

My memories of summer are happy. The laughter, the friendships, the long afternoons that felt like they would never end. I know the world has changed. There are more cars, more screens, more distractions, more dangers. But deep down, I still wish that we, as a nation and as a world, could somehow return to that quiet sense of security.

That was July and August then. A month of joy and simplicity. A time that still lives in my heart.