By this time of day, it was usually humid and the southern sun was hotter than a $2 pistol as my Daddy used to say. I’d usually run to the house to get a little drink before the gang got started on another activity. Mama was usually vacuuming at this point with The Young and the Restless playing in the background and with the floor still wet from mopping, she’d shoo us away and bring a glass of Kool-Aid or sweet tea to the door. They weren’t the most generous portions but we were warned if we went overboard on the drinks, we’d ruin our lunch. Oh, the air conditioning felt so good from the door...if only we were allowed to stay in and enjoy it. But, there was cleaning still to do and the house hadn’t yet reached an adequate saturation level of Pine-Sol fumes, so we were sent on our way and told that she’d call us when it was time for lunch.    

Lunch usually came after The Young and the Restless went off because, well, you didn’t want the house full of loud kids when you were trying to see what was going on in Genoa City with Nicki and Victor. This was about the time that Katherine Chancellor was missing and presumed dead after the tragic fire, so missing a day was not an option. Now, thanks to me, my mother’s Sunday School class knows that she watched a soap opera in the 70’s and early 80’s and for that I’m sorry. I’m sure they’ll extend grace. 

Since there usually wasn’t enough time for another lengthy activity before lunch, we’d all agree to play something like Follow the Leader on our bicycles. Somebody would be selected as the leader usually through a process of eeny, meeny, miny, moe or something terribly sophisticated like that. The leader would hop on her bike and we’d all follow. She’d take her hands off the handlebars for a while and so would we. She’d zigzag from one side of the street to the other and we would, too. She’d pop a wheelie. We’d pop a wheelie. She’d rid off the side of a driveway and jump a ditch and we were right behind her. The fact that nothing stood between our delicate heads and the pavement only made the game more exciting. We looked like Hell’s Angels all lined up in a row with the roar of playing cards flapping in our spokes. Banana seats, baskets, handlebar streamers, and fluorescent bike flags as far as the eye could see. 

About the time we’d be getting tired of that, we’d hear Mama yelling for us to come have lunch. It usually consisted of a hot dog, grilled cheese, or a fried bologna sandwich with chips, apple, and a piece of pound cake or a couple of duplex sandwich cookies. By that time of day, there was nothing that appealed to us on TV so, after we’d eaten and cooled off, we’d head back out. The other kids would trickle back out from their PBJ buffets and we’d usually decide to get together a game of kickball or whiffle ball. Captains were usually selected by drawing straws or picking a number between 1 and 20 and then the draft would begin. Of course, the older boys would go in the first round which included my older brother. And while I don’t like to brag, I went pretty early in the draft considering I weighed 70 pounds soaking wet and my arms looked like you could snap them like a twig. Players were picked, one by one, until it was down to the tiniest, most uncoordinated of the neighbors, but there was a place for everyone in the backyard league. 

At this point in the day, most of us were barefooted. Shoes were only for climbing barbed wire fences and pedaling ten speed bikes with the spiky pedals. The side yard between our house and the neighbor’s house was a popular ball field because of its length, width, and overall turf quality. The bases were usually the bare spots worn in the grass from their continual use, while home plate was always the water meter cover. We’d play for innings and innings. We’d move in when one of the kids with two left feet came to bat and back way up when it was one of the older boy’s turn. And if someone hit the ball out into the woods, we’d all go tromping through the brush to find it. 

We always had the rule that you could get someone out, not just by catching, tagging, or forcing outs, but also by pegging your opponent with the whiffle ball or kickball in the head as hard as you could or anywhere else on their body. This only added to the allure of the game. There was the occasional timeout called when someone would step on a sticker bush, or heaven forbid, a fresh pile of dog excrement. Of course, rules were usually made up as we went along to fit the circumstances. Like if the score was really lopsided, we’d declare that all the big boys had to bat left-handed or something like that. 

Sometimes, later in the day, we’d splinter off and do things in smaller groups. If we were thirsty and didn’t have time to stop, we might get a drink from the hose. If the coast was clear, I’d go in to cool off for a minute with a pudding pop but then I’d be ready to find the others to climb trees, play board games on the carport, run through somebody’s sprinkler, play croquet, or find a swing set and make one of the legs pop up out of the ground when we’d swing really high. I knew if I stayed inside too long, I’d be handed a rag and a can of Pledge and I wasn’t really interested in that.  

We’d play until the sun started to go down. The crickets started chirping. The frogs started singing. the mosquitos would begin nibbling on my skinny legs and, in the distance, we’d hear our Daddy whistle. He had a loud, two-part whistle that the three of us recognized as our call home. It didn’t matter how far away we were, we could hear it and it meant it was supper time. We’d pedal as fast as we could to a big supper of fried chicken, roast and gravy, or, sadly, sometimes, the dreaded salmon croquettes. We had to get fed, bathed, take in an episode of The Waltons or Barnaby Jones and then get some rest because, well, the next day, we had to do it all over again.