It must have been sometime in the mid-’60s. My little brother, Scotty, and I knew nothing of politics, economics or social issues. We knew about baseball, tree climbing and the ecstasy of summer vacation. Mostly, what we knew about was a place called Linwood Park. It was right across Hydraulic Street from our house in Wichita, Kansas. Our folks had moved there so we could have a bit more space. Of course, they also knew what Scotty and I had yet to learn: we had a little sister on the way.
In those days, as you’ve heard a thousand times, things were different. Kids like us would leave the house on a summer morning and not come back until dinner, which we still called supper. Dad had a special whistle—we could hear it from anywhere in the known world. It meant come home, now!
Linwood Park is still there, but back in the day there was far less to it. It was only a vast, flat expanse with a few trees, a couple of sandlot diamonds, some concrete basketball courts, and a number of well-placed water fountains that dispensed magic. Nothing ever tasted as good to me as that water. Of course, kids don’t factor in a 95-degree temperature along with ridiculous humidity, which was always the case in Wichita during the summer.
Oh, yes, and there was the canal. Along one border of the park, I believe from one end to the other, there was a deep drainage ditch. Everybody called it the canal. We were all strictly ordered not to go to the canal, but that is exactly where we were most of the time. That’s where the crawdads, fish, turtles and frogs lived, and we were little boys.
There was a shelter in the middle of the park, and every couple of hours someone would blow a whistle, and we would go to that shelter for activities. It was a ploy to get us out of the heat for a few minutes. We gladly went, because there were always popsicles or snow cones for everybody. The shelter was only an actual shelter when it rained, or hailed. But when it came down in Wichita, that’s the kind of downpour Amarillo people know well.
When it was hot, we would sing songs like “Bingo” or “The Ants Go Marching One by One,” and then they turned us loose. The park activities director was a friend of our family. He was in our church, in fact. His name was Burl.
So while the music played over the park PA system—it was great music, like Motown and the Beatles—we passed that summer mostly unaware of the world’s problems. They did visit home, like when our down-the-street neighbor, an active USAF man like our dad, came home from Thailand (which meant Vietnam, and everybody knew it). He spent the better part of a month in bed in a dark room, resting. I went to see him, since he was my Sunday School teacher, and the father of our best friends, Jerry and Tony. He was weak and very tired. I remember him trying to make conversation with me, though he obviously wasn’t up to it.
Dad had an old pickup with bug-eyed headlights and big, rolling fenders and a front grill with a lot of personality. Thinking back, I guess it was a late ’30s model. It hardly ever ran right. Mom hated it. It was kind of a rusty purpley orange color. Dad called it the Burgundy Bandit. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen, and Scotty and myself always begged for a ride in the bed of the Bandit. “Where are we going to go?” Dad would ask, knowing the answer already. Sandy’s was our local burger place, and they had ice cream cones to boot. Dairy Queen, our other favorite, was a little too far—for us kids or for the truck—so we went to Sandy’s.
We got a puppy that summer, we named him Caesar. He had regal-looking eyebrows that made him seem a little pompous. We thought that was a scream. We had hamsters named Antony and Cleopatra, so our puppy’s name, we figured, should be commensurate with our historical theme.
Caesar grew up to be a very big dog, and a roughhouser as well, which suited Scotty and I to a tee. But that summer, he was just a tiny, rambunctious fur ball with a never-ending hunger for Ol’ Roy dog food, and plenty of time to play with Scotty and me.
These memories comfort me as I write this column during a hot summer much like those of my childhood in Wichita. My little brother Scott passed away of a heart attack in September 2006. I started working on this on July 22—his birthday—without consciously realizing the significance of the date. Scott lived
by Big Bear Lake in California, retired, but occasionally helping his neighbor with some renovation work. I miss him.
Though nothing of note happened that summer in the ’60s, I always wish I could go back to those simpler times I enjoyed with my brother.
