Russell Baker

SUMMER BEYOND WISH

A long time ago I lived in a crossroads village of northern Virginia and
during its summer enjoyed innocence and never knew boredom, although nothing of consequence happened there.
Seven houses of varying lack of distinction constituted the community.
A dirt road meandered off toward the mountain where a bootleg still
supplied whisky to the men of the countryside, and another dirt road ran
down to the creek. My cousin Kenneth and I would sit on the bank and
fish with earthworms. O n e day we killed a copperhead which was basking on a rock nearby. That was unusual.
The heat of summer was mellow and produced sweet scents which lay
in the air so damp and rich you could almost taste them. Mornings
smelled of purple wisteria, afternoons of the wild roses which tumbled
over stone fences, and evenings of honeysuckle.
Even by standards of that time it was a primitive place. There was no
electricity. Roads were unpaved. In our house there was no plumbing.
T h e routine of summer days was shaped by these deficiencies. Lacking
electric lights, one went early to bed and rose while the dew was still in
the grass. Kerosene lamps were cleaned and polished in an early-morning
hubbub of women, and children were sent to the spring for fresh water.
This afforded a chance to see whether the crayfish population had
multiplied. Later, a trip to the outhouse would afford a chance to daydream in the Sears, Roebuck Catalogue, mostly about shotguns and
bicycles.
With no electricity, radio was not available for pacifying the young.
One or two people did have radios that operated on mail-order batteries
about the size of a present-day car battery, but these were not for
children, though occasionally you might be invited in to hear " A m o s 'n'
Andy." [a radio show]
All I remember about " A m o s 'n' A n d y " at that time is that it was
strange hearing voices come out of furniture. M u c h later I was advised
that listening to " A m o s 'n' A n d y " was racist and was grateful that I
hadn't heard much.
In the summer no pleasures were to be had indoors. Everything of
delight occurred in the world outside. In the flowers there were hummingbirds to be seen, tiny wings fluttering so fast that the birds seemed to

have no wings at all.

In the heat of mid-afternoon the women would draw the blinds, spread
blankets on the floor for coolness and nap, while in the fields the cattle
herded together in the shade of spreading trees to escape the sun. Afternoons were absolutely still, yet filled with sounds.
Bees buzzed in the clover. Far away over the fields the chug of an
Ancient steam- powered threshing machine could be faintly heard. Birds
rustled under the tin of the porch roof.
Rising dust along the road from the mountains signaled an approaching event. A car was coming. " C a r ' s coming," someone would say. People
emerged from houses. The approaching dust was studied. Guesses were
hazarded about whom it might contain.
Then --- a big moment in the daythe car would cruise past.
Who was it?"
I didn't get a good look."
It looked like Packy Painter to me."
Couldn't have been Packy. Wasn't his car."
The stillness resettled itself as gently as the dust, and you could
wander past the henhouse and watch a hen settle herself to perform the
mystery of laying an egg. For livelier adventure there was the field that
contained the bull. T h e r e , one could test his courage by seeing how far he
dared venture before running back through the fence.
The men drifted back with the falling sun, steaming with heat and
fatigue, and washed in tin basins with water hauled in buckets from the
spring. I knew a few of their secrets, such as who kept his whisky hidden
in a mason jar behind the lime barrel, and what they were really doing
when they excused themselves from the kitchen and stepped out into the
orchard and stayed out there laughing too hard.
I also knew what the women felt about it, though not what they
thought. Even then I could see that matters between women and men
could become very difficult and, sometimes, so difficult that they spoiled
the air of summer.
At sunset people sat on the porches. As dusk deepened, the lightning

bugs came out to be caught and bottled. As twilight edged into night, a
bat swooped across the road. I was not afraid of bats then, although I
feared ghosts, which made the approach of bedtime in a room where even
the kerosene lamp would quickly be doused seem terrifying.
I was even more afraid of toads and specifically of the toad which lived
under the porch steps and which, everyone assured me, would, if
touched, give me warts. O n e night I was allowed to stay up until the stars
were in full command of the sky. A woman of great age was dying in the
village and it was considered fit to let the children stay abroad into the
night. As four of us sat there we saw a shooting star and someone said,
Make a wish."
I did not know what that meant. I didn't know anything to wish for.
[1978]