Summer vacation

September 1963. Sixth grade. Miss McClintock's class at Huntington Junior High. I had braces and bad hair and eyebrows that looked like Leonid Brezhnev's. The first assignment? Write an essay about what you did for summer vacation.

Not again. The old summer vacation trick. Twisting my gnarly eyebrows, I checked out my competition. I knew Anne Harnagel went to Washington, D.C., while Jimmy Tolfrey camped in the Sierras to stay cool. Betsy and Marilyn summered in San Clemente and pretended to be cool.

But the closest I got to water was moving the Rain Bird in the backyard. Summers in our house weren't spent in Cannes. My routine was basic. I had a trusty transistor radio tuned to KHJ, but it was tough to hear the Beach Boys above the fan blowing furiously in my window. For romance and adventure, I changed the sprinklers, read Nancy Drew mysteries and ironed the sheets. The art of frying fabric was my specialty.

We treated our ironing better than Granny, who wore Hush Puppies and drank scotch for lunch. I had to spritz those massive sheets with this Coke bottle thingy and then toss 'em in the fridge next to the pickles and the Miracle Whip. Dad's handkerchiefs and boxer shorts were in there, too. And billions of pleated skirts. Billions and billions.

And then there was that iron. Firing up the beast was a lesson in modern combustion. I made that sucker roar like an old '52 Volvo. I could have pan-roasted salmon on that thing. I had to use a certain kind of water in the monster, or otherwise I'd plug it up. Which meant that whenever Mom wasn't watching, I gave it a few shots from our suburban tap just to try to kill the beast. It never worked.

The thrills and chills of summer wore on. Folding laundry, polishing the silver, shaping hamburger patties, baking cupcakes for anyone who would eat one and devouring more Nancy Drew mysteries kept me busy. Much to Mom's dismay, my cupcake escapades left enough errant frosting to lube her red Chevy.

If it could be waxed, ironed or dusted . . . if it could be vacuumed, washed, bleached or starched . . . if it could be buffed, scraped, swept or dried, then it was part of my daily grind. My summer dance card was not filled with the chacha.

I used to take ballet in the summer, maybe some piano lessons and work on merit badges for Girl Scouts. But the tutu had to be starched, the piano bench polished, and the first merit badge this Girl Scout earned was grout cleaning. When they told me to take the pledge I thought they meant I had to wax the table.

Ah, but evenings in the summer were the best. The permanent floating kickball game exploded in the streets with every kid of every flavor . . . even the ones I didn't see during the year because they went to private school and wore plaid. The whole gang hit the street. Barefoot and hungry for silliness, we'd play until our parents dragged our dirty paws inside. Sometimes I'd even share my signature cupcakes. Or we'd walk to the Shopping Bag for Grape Ice. Now that was cool.

So what did I write for my essay? I wrote about Paris.

Come on, how do you write about changing the sprinklers and ironing Dad's BVDs? I figured, what the heck, let's give old Miss McClintock a rockin' good read, and how's about a romp to the home of "La Marseillaise"?

I channeled Eloise and fashioned the most glamorous summer to end all endless summers. Riding my bike along the Champs Elysees through the Arc de Triomphe, chocolate éclairs for lunch, and dinner at the Eiffel Tower.

I saw Picasso at Les Deux Magots and strolled along the Seine listening to Debussy's "La Mer" on my transistor radio. (Miss McClintock loved classical music, so I knew I'd get extra brownie points for that one.) No problem. I turned that baby in and got an A.

Unfortunately, my teacher loved the essay so much that she remembered to mention it to my parents on back-to-school night.

"Paris?" Dad asked.

"Oui," I replied.

"Serves that old bat Miss McClintock right," Mom announced, "for assigning such a mundane paper. Next year where will you go, honey?"

Next year? Well, I'll salute the ironing board in the morning and sign off by playing ball with my friends. At nightfall, our eyes will travel to the stars to figure out how to touch one.

I wonder if the stars sparkle in Paris like they did on Adair Street.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com.

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