BY PETER BRONSON
The Cincinnati Enquirer
This is it, the weekend everyone has been waiting for, the return of my all-time favorite sequel that opens today in a backyard near you: Summertime.
The special effects are several warp speeds beyond Hollywood. Shimmering heat turns blacktop highways into mirage pools of water, that suddenly vanish as soon as you get close. Thunderstorms make the sky flash like a strobe light in a nightclub. The Ohio river slithers by like a languid serpent, changing moods from frog-pond green to sparkling gunmetal blue.
Memorial Day weekend is the first bell in a season that is one long playground recess.
The calendar says summer officially touches down in Cincinnati at 9:03 a.m. on June 21. But the calendar is uninformed. It can't hear the lazy bee-drone of lawnmowers, soft evening laughter on backyard decks, the sizzle of steaks on a grill or the splash and squeal of kids in a pool.
It can't smell oiled baseball gloves, cut grass, sun lotion, beech sand, blooming flowers, melting tar or the rumor of rain on a breeze that makes leaves huddle and turn their silvery backs to the gathering storm.
It can't see sunlight as thick as honey, white clouds like billowing sails or the intense translucent colors of melting popsicles. A paper calendar can't feel cool grass under bare feet or the affectionate tickle of a hot wind through open car windows.
My favorite soundtrack for summertime is All Day Music, Low Rider, Spill the Wine and Summer, by a mostly forgotten 1970s band called War.
In the bleak of middle March, I dropped off a set of 25-year-old Advent speakers to have them repaired, along with a museum piece we used to call a turntable. I had in mind a day -- just such a day in May, with the windows open, sun streaming in and the antique stereo playing my skip-free album of War's Greatest Hits. Loudly.
And there it is, I'm transported back 25 years:
"Driving round town with all the windows down. The eight-track playing all your favorite sounds."
The kids will interrupt: "Dad, what's an eight track?"
I will try to describe an audio artifact from prehistoric times when the cuffs of my jeans were wider than the waist, before haircuts and shoes were invented, when college kids rioted to abolish the draft, not for another draft beer.
They won't believe any of it, of course. I wouldn't either.
"You had tapes that were bigger than my Walkman? No way. What did you carry them around in, a suitcase?"
Then they will want to know, "What was the draft?"
How does anyone explain that today?
The only war my children have ever known was the CNN miniseries called Desert Storm. It came and went faster than most movies. No reruns. You can't even find it at the video store.
But for the rest of this century, wars have swept through America like Old Testament plagues, carrying off and killing the promising young sons of generation after generation. There were only 23 years to recover from World War I before World War II exploded. Then five years until Korea. Eleven years after that, we waded into Vietnam for nine years of grief and grievances.
When I was growing up, the boys in my neighborhood all watched TV shows like Combat and Rat Patrol. We read Sgt. Rock comics and spent every waking moment of every summer day playing an endless game simply called "army." The rules: You were either an American G.I. or you were on the losing side. You hid in imaginary foxholes, threw dirt-clod grenades from imaginary bunkers, and when you were "shot" by imaginary bullets, you took your "deads" like a man -- scoring extra points for dramatic head-first falls and writhing agony.
Here's some good news. We didn't grow up to be psychopathic killers because we played with guns.
And here's better news: Kids don't play war anymore. It's as forgotten as that 1970s band.
Unfortunately, so are all the American heroes who made sure the other team wound up losers. Thanks to them, we are at peace, and we have the luxury to forget what happens when we keep patching world trouble spots with tape, paste and appeasement, putting off the dirty work for someone else to do.
But sometimes a worry passes over like a cloud: "someone else" could be my son. Maybe we are like leaves in a breeze, turning our backs to the gathering storm.
But then the chill passes . . . summer's back, the sun is shining and we are blessed to be alive in a golden time, when children don't play army and war is just old music.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
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