Monday, July 13, 1998

Enjoying that summer off can take work

By Rheta Grimsley Johnson

On the first day of her Georgia vacation, my niece Chelsey swam, rented "George of the Jungle," ate four hot dogs, bought 10 paperbacks and a Mulan doll with a ponytail you can cut off with a plastic sword, then reattach.

On the second day of Chelsey's summer vacation, she sat, spraddled on the floor, twirling Mulan's extra hair. Chelsey sighed a deep, Greta Garbo sigh. "I'm bored to the bone," she said.

On the third day of Chelsey's summer vacation, she saw "The Truman Show," baked cookies shaped like the Eiffel Tower, waded in a creek, ate fried chicken and spent the rest of the day complaining there was nothing to do.

On the fifth day of Chelsey's summer vacation, she lost Mulan's detachable ponytail, refused to eat anything green, turned down an invitation to Six Flags and out of desperation for something to do walked the neighbor's dogs.

Maybe it's my own lack of imagination that's at fault, I thought. Surely there are ways to entertain children that don't involve a fat bank account and full tank of gas. I tried to remember the best summertime things I did as a child.

There were the swimming trips to Williams' Mill near Colquitt, of course.

We first cousins took turns holding tight to my grandfather's strong back as he swam for two against the creek current. Picnics were eaten straight from a can, little pink sausages that came out all at once when you stuck a pocketknife in the center one.

On the ride home we sang at the top of our lungs through the open car windows, hot air licking at our faces. The songs were nonsensical, not from any soundtrack.

Some days we fished with a limb from a cardboard box boat in a sea of grass. When we caught a keeper, a sycamore leaf, we floured it with sand, then fried it in water.

Other days we would lie on our backs and stare up at the clouds, looking for Tyrannosaurus rex or Lassie. Bored, I guess, but never in a million years would we have told an adult. Adults kept a list of chores handy in their breast pockets and ready to assign to the first unoccupied child spotted.

The TV was turned on once a week for "Wagon Train" and "Hit Parade," but mostly it sat silent, green face blank, within the strict purview of parents. Life did not revolve around it.

One summer we saw the movie "Old Yeller." Once, not a dozen times the way children watch movies now.

If you describe your childhood to today's kids, they get the same look we got when our grandparents talked of picking cotton and plowing behind a mule, and when our parents droned on about the year Santa brought one orange apiece for Christmas.

Kids who have surfed the Internet don't want to fish for sycamore leaves.

Kids who have rented movies their entire lives don't want to hear about the good ole days of TV deprivation. Kids who have ridden the log flume don't envy your memories of Williams' Mill.

As a last resort, I buy a journal full of blank pages. Without ceremony, I hand it to Chelsey, who is watching "George of the Jungle" for the sixth time.

"Write a story, or a poem," I say, without much hope. "Draw a picture."

Hours later, she emerges from her room, a smile on her face. The journal warns "Private! Keep Out!" so I may never know what she had to say about summertime, me, boredom or other burning issues.

But already we've conquered the afternoon, and I have high hopes for the evening. When the temperature drops below 90, we can sit on the porch swing and let the old cat die.

King Features Syndicate