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Summertime: And the Livin’ is Easy
By Luke Capuano
Collaborator: Vince Romano
Holy-Moly! June’s here and school is OUT! Let the fun begin! The
weight of the world is off your shoulders and the next 67 days are
all yours to do with as you please. For everyone except those
unfortunate summer school kids.
For all the baby boomers out there you know exactly what I’m
talking about: staying out later; sleeping longer; TV whenever;
romps to the 12th Street Beach; and games that grabbed your
imaginations from sunup to sunset…games that sent you home
weary but happy warriors. It was fun to the nth power. It was
summer vacation and you were locked into a world, isolated from
all others, that was uniquely Taylor Street.
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Marbles, tops, yo-yo’s, baseball cards, sling shots, bean blowers, fly-
back paddle balls, Hopscotch, Double- Dutch, Kick-the-Can, Hide-
and-Seek, and a host of other games that we either inherited from
previous generations of Taylor Street bred kids or your generation
had conjured up. Walking around looking cool with a punk in your
mouth had to be something that was passed on from earlier
generations that had arrived at the turn of the century and had
been nurtured through the great depression. More often than not,
the marbles, sling shots, bean blowers, etc. were carried in the
pockets of your jeans. When you walked down the street it looked
like you had a saddle bag strapped around your hips.
The four dollar pair of jeans had the life span of a Himalayan
monk. The tattering and fraying were the result of being hand-me-
downs from older siblings. The holes themselves were well earned.
More likely than not, they were the result of falling off your bike
onto the cobble stone streets, playing King of the Hill, getting
caught on the chained linked fences that you scaled, or playing
tackle football with no equipment on Sheridan Park’s cinder
surfaced playing fields. Yes, that’s when a “rip was a rip”. Today
the same $4 dollar pair of jeans, pre-worn or pre-ripped, has an
additional $75 or so added to its price. What a world! One day you’
re an underprivileged inner city kid. Hang around a decade or two
and those same torn and tattered jeans are the rage on the North
Shore. Who knew then that we were fashion setters?
Ah, but the sounds of summer where the best. Ringing bells meant
the Good Humor man was near. “Toot-da-toot” was the Lupino
Man’s horn announcing the arrival of a cart full of lupini, salted
pumpkin seeds and monkey nuts. The strains of a happy melody
forewarned of the bi-weekly visit of the Mr. Softy truck. At 10:30am
and 6:30pm sharp the air-raid sirens pierced the air. Other than the
sun hinting at the time of day, the sirens were the only reliable
measure of time. Being late for chores or dinner was never an
option, so the 6:30pm siren had a useful purpose.
But the best sound of all, the sound that awakens blissful memories
of growing up in the legendary Taylor Street’s Little Italy, was the
sound of water blasting out of the fire hydrants. One could never
forget the magnificent sight of water spraying over our heads in the
shape of a fan. The breadth and depth of that fan was determined
by what was used to create the spray of water that sometimes
reached as far as steps of the homes on the other side of the street.
The spray varied from day to day and hydrant to hydrant. A car tire
and 2X4 board, a cracked hydrant cap screwed back into place with
the perfect angle to create the best possible spray, or one of the
bigger kids sneaking behind the hydrant and putting a choke hold
on the water gushing out determined the height , width and
distance of the spray. The choke hold was the best of all.
What a way to stay cool! Run through, get wet, and then get some
sun. Repeat this over and over, and then occasionally carry a girl or
two into the spray. You did so for the sheer fun of it. Later, as your
generation moved beyond its pre-pubescent stage, the outline of
her bra or panties emerged (consciously or subconsciously) as the
dominant motivation for the ritual of dragging neighborhood girls
into the spray. There was no need to go to confession. All peoples,
since the beginning of time, had a similar ritual as hormonal
changes occurred. It was nature’s way of ensuring the survival of
the species. How appropriate that Taylor Street, isolated from the
others, was associated with water. After all, isn’t that where all life
began?
The hydrant was an escape from the blistering heat, not only for us,
but for the elderly too. The old timers would come out and sit on
their chairs or grape cartons to catch the light drizzle of water that
would come with a rare breeze. Also, what was cool was the magic
of the rainbow the fan would make when the sun hit the water at
just the right angle. Totally beautiful! One could say that living on
Taylor Street was like owning lake side property. What a blast!
There were times the hydrant was open all night. On Saturday
mornings, the older guys, whose mothers gave them the oddest
names in the world--- Hammerhead, Butterball, Pluggy, Bear, etc.---
would wash and wax their own cars, which is unheard of today. So,
they too took advantage of the open hydrant in their own way. The
hydrant seemed like a beacon that attracted the entire community.
Today the fire hydrants serve the remnants of the old
neighborhood. Newcomers to the UIC campus are intrigued when
first witnessing the fire hydrant. Eventually, the students
themselves are overcome by the lure of the hydrant. The screams
of college girls being carried into the hydrant’s spray replaces the
youthful screams of a time gone by…a time that was and will never
be again.