The Summer of Popsicles

The summer of 2004 was our first summer in the little gray house. The elderly couple across the street babysat a bunch of children that summer. That couple had so many troubles that taking care of children, especially other people's children, was something they should never have undertaken. They simply didn't have the time, energy, patience, or kindness. They would send the kids out in the morning and lock the doors. When it was lunchtime, one of the kids would put together pb&j before being sent out again. It was heartbreaking. To make matters worse, these childrens' parents' were not only paying for childcare, but they were sending food and snacks as well, none of which the children were being fed.

Fortunately though, these children were all around my own kids' ages. My boys woke up around seven each morning and eagerly ran to the windows to see if their new friends were at the neighbor's yet. And almost every morning, those kids would be sitting on the neighbor's porch watching for the slightest movement from our house. As soon as we opened the curtains or the front door, they ran across the street to have breakfast with us. Most days they spent at least five hours at our house. I never went through so many popsicles as that summer. On one hand, I was disgusted that the neighbor was abusing the situation so much. We paid for massive amounts of food and snacks, while the neighbor was not only getting paid, but getting food as well! But on the other hand, I knew that if I talked to any of the parents, they would surely pull their kids out and my kids would be left without their friends. I decided to just let things run their course.

That summer we spent a lot of time in the woods, in the creeks. We found tadpoles and crawdads. We went to the beach and made jewelry and clay projects. It was loud and crazy, and not always fun for me. One day one of the kids broke their wrist and the neighbor had her door locked. Again. I was left with a wounded child in need of medical attention and I did not have the parents' phone numbers.

Eventually the parents started to believe the stories the kids told them each night about being kicked out of the house and having things thrown at them. One by one they fired my neighbor. Three of the kids I ended up watching the rest of the summer. The other boy stayed home alone all day. He was nine.

That little boy was the one I worried about the most. He had way too much freedom. There were drug parties at his house and he told wild tales time and again. He was a likeable kid, always eager to talk and eager to listen. He just wanted to hang out. And so, we let him.

Until one day the bank foreclosed on their big, beautiful, newly built home, and he was gone.

Until tonight.

We were at the skatepark when he approached Jonah. He was tentative at first, but quickly opened up. He has moved all over the country, lived with several different people, and been in numerous fights. His stories, although told with a careless air, are chilling and surely bear more weight than he is letting on. His parents are still too wrapped up in their friends and drugs to do much with him and he, as the only child, is basically a liability. He was in town tonight because his dad hangs out at our bowling alley with his old 'friends' on Thursday nights, while the boy is left to wander. He is older now, 14, but still just yearning for someone to talk to, someone to listen.

He stayed with us for the whole time we were there. He asked if we would come next week and I told him we'd try. He also told me that he's found it necessary to block out the past because it's too painful. But he remembers that summer and he told me that it was fun and he liked to think about it.

One summer.
Hugs and band-aids, chicken nuggets, popcorn, and lots of chaos.
But he remembers it as something different, something more.
And that...is a good thing.

And so, once again, I am reminded that we will never know who we can touch with a kind word, a caring smile, or lots and lots of popsicles.