About Me — Adrienne Daniels
How I Became an Avid Spiritual Tourist With No Return Ticket Ch 3
Read Ch 2 here.
Summer of 1975
The summer of ’75 was a summer vacation to be remembered. With school out, my two older brothers, Junior and Keith, and I were ready for some serious fun. To top it off, our cousin, Shelley, came down from Buffalo, New York to visit. Shelly was 11, the same age as Keith, while Junior, the eldest, was 14. I was 8 and had no problem keeping up with the older ones, and little BJ, at 3, was already proving to be a handful for our mom.
Shelley, too, was the only girl in a family of boys, so she was my soul sister. We instantly clicked, sharing that special alliance only solo sisters surrounded by a bunch of big-headed boys could understand. We baked cakes with my Easy-Bake Oven, pretending we were gourmet chefs whipping up delicious desserts. Our Barbies lived the high life in their Townhouse, complete with melodramatic scenes straight from the soaps. We played jacks and hopscotch, and once Shelley met my neighborhood friends, we couldn’t get enough of double-dutch, hide-and-seek, red light green light, and mother may I. And the daily treks to the corner store — sometimes two or more, our pockets rattling with the loose change we’d scour around the house for, destined for candy. It was hands down one of the best summers ever, filled with laughter and endless games.
But it was on one of those restless summer days that Shelley and I, along with some of the neighborhood kids, found ourselves somewhat bored and in need of some harmless fun, or so we thought. We decided to mess with the neighbor’s dog — a tiny, annoying little thing that barked at everything and everyone but never left its front yard. This dog did seem like the perfect target for a little mischief. Our game was supposed to be a simple one: we’d creep up to the edge of the yard, stomp our feet, and then run away, laughing and howling with delight. It was all in good fun, and we honestly thought it was harmless.
But what we didn’t realize was that there was an x-factor in the mix — a German Shepherd from across the street, locked behind a backyard fence. This dog was much bigger and so much more intimidating. As we took turns agitating this poor, little creature, the German Shepherd watched us with fixed eyes. We were absolutely clueless! We had no idea that the German Shepherd had been plotting to defend his little friend the whole time.
Around the fifth round of our foot-stomping silliness, we suddenly heard a loud rattle from the fence from across the street. Someone shouted, “Look out!” Everyone bolted in different directions, but I, unfortunately, slipped on a muddy patch of grass and fell flat on the ground. As I lay on my belly, I heard a clear, loud voice inside my head say, “Play dead.” So I did. I stayed completely still, not even daring to breathe as the German Shepherd sniffed me over. It felt like time stood still.
Eventually, the dog decided that I wasn’t a threat, and as quickly as it had appeared it trotted back to its yard. As if by a graceful miracle, I found myself sitting on the roof of a parked car. One moment I was on the ground, and the next, I was perched on top of a car, with no memory at all of how I got there. It literally felt like some invisible force had lifted me and set me down safely.
Once the coast was clear, I climbed down and rejoined the group. Everyone stared at me with wide eyes. “You floated!” they exclaimed. Wait, did I actually float? Because I honestly couldn’t remember how I got on top of the roof of that car. Without responding, I quickly turned away from my friends and started walking home, with Shelley following behind. We didn’t say a word to each other the whole way. I was too busy trying to wrap my head around what had just happened. And for the rest of the summer, this little incident became an unspoken secret — we never brought it up again.
As the summer was coming to an end, Shelly and I dreaded her inevitable return back home. My parents decided to have a night out on our last evening together, and with my grandfather asleep in his room, the responsibility of keeping the peace fell on Junior. Normally, Junior would be absorbed by his comic books emerging only to ensure that the house was still standing and that no one was being tortured or had been terribly injured. But surprisingly that night, Junior decided to join in on our house-romping escapade, which for me was a rare and exciting treat — until, that is, he introduced a gross twist involving his smelly surprise.
Our silly game turned chaotic as we tried to sit on each other, with the added “challenge” of avoiding Junior’s dreaded release. When he tried to sit on me, I struggled to push him off, but his weight was too much. In my desperate attempt to escape, my right hand got bent too far back and was painfully sprained. My scream could have woken the dead. Junior’s face turned ashen with guilt and concern. He hadn’t meant to hurt me, and I could see that he felt terrible. Despite my best efforts to hide my tears, the pain was overwhelming. I ran to my room, threw myself on the bed, and buried my face in the pillow, crying until sleep finally offered an escape from the throbbing in my hand.
A few hours later, I woke up to the recognizable sounds of my parents returning home, their voices mingling with the low hum of a night winding down. My mom sensed something was off the moment she stepped inside. The house was too quiet — eerily quiet. Five kids sitting in silence in one room usually meant trouble. Her maternal radar was pinging, especially since one of the five was conspicuously absent from the living room lineup.
With my dad in tow, my mom marched straight to my room, concern etched on her face. “What’s wrong?” she asked, wasting no time on pleasantries. Now, I wasn’t exactly prepared for a full confession. None of us had coordinated our stories, and I was caught off guard. “Uh, I was playing and accidentally bent my hand back and, um, broke it,” I stammered, revealing a partial truth. Yes, I was playing, and yes, my hand did bend back, and it did feel like it was broken, but I figured it was better to keep the full cast of characters out of this narrative.
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Dad, slipping into his rare but much-appreciated “doc mode,” had me sit up for an impromptu examination. He gently manipulated my wrist and fingers, checking for signs of a break. These moments, when he became focused and caring, were cherished — like catching a glimpse of a natural yet beautiful anomaly. As I followed his instructions, despite the pain, I couldn’t help but feel a deep affection for this side of him.
After his thorough inspection, he concluded that nothing was broken but confirmed my wrist was badly sprained. Without missing a beat, he rummaged around and emerged with an old pair of pantyhose and a T-shirt. In a move that could only be described as vintage dad ingenuity, he fashioned a makeshift bandage and sling. The pantyhose wrapped snugly around my wrist, and the T-shirt sling offered support. It was a practical and comforting solution, and I felt a rush of gratitude and love for my dad at that moment.
New York
“Time to wake up,” my mother whispered, gently placing her hand on my shoulder as if coaxing me from the dream world back to the quiet morning reality. Next to me, Shelley let out a soft groan and rolled over, clearly not ready to leave the comfort of our twin bed. The sun was barely a glow in the sky, but the birds were already holding a chirping contest outside. I wanted to sleep a bit longer, but then I remembered what day it was. We were going to New York! The thought of our trip to Coney Island jolted me awake. I shot up in bed, eyes wide with excitement. “Coney Island!” I blurted out, probably louder than necessary.
Mom took that as her cue and began her rounds, gently nudging everyone else awake. Within an hour, we were all packed into my dad’s bronze, Ford LTD, ready for the nine-hour drive ahead. Granddad had insisted on staying behind, probably because he knew there wasn’t an inch of space left in the car. We were packed tighter than sardines, with me (arm still in a sling), Shelley, Junior, and Keith crammed into the back seat, while Dad and Mom sat in the front with baby BJ. And let’s not forget the mountain of snacks we had crammed in with us — enough to feed a small army, along with books, crayons, travel games, and, yes, plenty of chatter to keep us occupied. The anticipation of visiting Coney Island, with its legendary cotton candy and thrilling rides, made the long journey feel like an adventure waiting to unfold.
Shelley, on the other hand, was quieter than her usual chatty self. It was clear she wasn’t quite ready to head home. I couldn’t blame her, but I imagined I’d miss my mom terribly if I were away for nearly two and a half months. Even though a break from my brothers sounded nice, I still couldn’t fathom being gone that long.
The ride began uneventfully, with endless stretches of corn and wheat fields flanking the highway. It felt like we were driving through an ocean of brown, green, and gold. Occasionally, we’d spot some cows, sheep, and a few horses grazing, but it was mostly just hours of watching trees, wheat, and corn go by for miles. As the scenery started to blur, I found myself getting bored and sleepy. The excitement of Coney Island was still there, but the journey was proving to be a test of endurance.
After a few pit stops and us asking our parents the only question children know to ask, “Are we there yet?”, we finally pulled up in front of Shelley’s family home. This massive brownstone, towering three stories high, stood proudly behind a garden that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, with its splashes of vibrant greens and stunning array of pastel flowers. I had never seen a house so grand; it was like stepping into another world. Compared to our cozy one-level, four-bedroom ranch-style house, this place was a full-blown castle!
Mom, BJ, and I followed Shelly through a tall iron gate, feeling like royalty as we made our way to the front entrance. Meanwhile Dad, Junior, and Keith tackled the task of unloading the bags from the trunk of the car, grumbling about the sheer number of suitcases we had managed to pack. As we approached the enormous wooden doors, I couldn’t help but feel like a prodigal princess returning to her kingdom.
“You’ve made it!” Aunt Rose exclaimed, sweeping Shelley into a big hug and planting a kiss on her cheek. “We’ve missed you so much!” In no time, the house was buzzing with life as Shelley’s family welcomed us with open arms.
After dinner, the house settled into a comfortable evening rhythm. The adults — Mom, Dad, Uncle Rodney, Aunt Rose (Shelley’s parents), and Shelley’s Uncle Sammy — convened on the big front porch. They were swapping stories, laughing, and grooving to some old school while sipping on lemonade. Meanwhile, us kids were banished to the back porch each armed with a bowl of vanilla ice cream and chocolate chip cookies.
There were seven of us all talking — or rather, some of us were yelling — about the rides at Coney Island. It was a loud, chaotic symphony of excitement and anticipation. Despite my one-armed predicament, I was pumped. “I’m definitely riding the Spider!” I declared, trying to project my voice over the racket. “But the Bumper Cars are the best, and the rollercoaster is the scariest!”
A chorus of agreement followed, everyone nodding emphatically about the terror-inducing rollercoaster. Only Troy, Shelley’s brother — a year older than she, backed me up on the Bumper Cars being the best, which earned him a high-five from me and a knowing grin.
Shelley was busy describing the Tilt-A-Whirl in vivid detail, her hands flying around as if she were already on the ride. Junior and Keith were debating the merits of the Funhouse versus the Haunted House, each trying to outdo the other with tales of past experiences.
The babies of the bunch, my brother BJ and Caleb, Shelley and Troy’s little brother, were sitting there looking more interested in their ice cream than the conversation, their faces and bare chests smeared with melted chocolate, crumbs, cream, and contented smiles on their faces. About once or twice, Caleb would pipe in with, “I wanna ride the pony!” which made us all laugh, knowing there were no ponies at Coney Island.
The excitement was palpable, the chatter nonstop. Even with a sprained wrist, I could feel the thrill of the rides, the rush of the rollercoaster, the jolt of the Bumper Cars, and the spin of the Spider. The night was a perfect prelude to the adventure that awaited us the next day. The ice cream and the cookies were just the icing on the cake — or in this case, the chocolate chips in the cookie.
What is your best childhood summer memory? Share your comments below.
There’s more About Me, so if you’re interested, be on the lookout for Chapter 4.
And again, thank you for reading.
