Marcia Sherrill
Lazy Days
Uninformed about the hazards of tanning, we baked ourselves a toasty brown with the careful application of Crisco and the use of strategically placed tin foil...
BY
Marcia Sherrill
PHOTOGRAPHY
Steve Pomberg

Casting back to memories of my Southern childhood, I remember the barefoot days (yes, barefoot) leading up to summer when we could scarcely bear another word out of the beloved and long-suffering nuns' mouths at our small Catholic school. There were the pesky polyester uniforms and the final exams and then - GLORY DAYS! FREEDOM! Like most Southern children of that time (no, don't think To Kill a Mockingbird; it was the '70s), we did not get what today's offspring do - a swirling vortex of lavish activities, vacations and expensive camps and Juicy Couture outfits in an array of sherbet colors. Nope, we got our cousins' cast-off denim shorts and T-shirts from the markdown bin at the local department store. We ran wild!

A big vacation was a trip to the lake - a chigger-infested one. Back then, lakes - and any other body of water, such as our much-loved river - were not the sanitized, water-parked, amped-up entertainment experiences that they are today. There had, as yet, been scant little attention to the environment, so I'd wager we swam in what must have been a carcinogenic stew of chemicals and E. coli and our DNA is probably all the better for it. As for our gear, my momma was not in the vanguard of Martha Stewart-ish mothers with Burberry blankets and Hermes picnic baskets. No, a stained wool blanket that the dogs liked to call their own would do quite nicely, and the paper plates and plastic forks were scarcely used as we scarfed down soggy ham sandwiches and potato chips and guzzled from a family bottle of Coca-Cola. But we had fun! After a day of swimming at the lake, we returned home pinkish from the red clay-infested waters and ready for a night at the drive-in. Bringing our own popcorn, we were heady with excitement as we went into the tin Quonset hut that passed for a snack shop and bought Icees. Our momma cared little for the inappropriate content of mature, adult-oriented films, but pre-ratings movie-going found us stuck to the sweaty Naugahyde of our Buick's seats as we were spellbound by Wait Until Dark and Psycho.

The highlight of the summer was a trip to the panhandle of Florida, where we stayed in dank and cramped rooms with 'beach views' (meaning well across the street from actual sand). But there was Putt-Putt and Miracle Mile in Panama City Beach, and boys to be trolled for, as we donned skimpy halter-tops run up on Momma's creaking Singer sewing machine and hip huggers sporting elephant bells that could shelter smaller Baltic nations - all thoughtfully designed compliments of our very own Ronco rhinestone-and-stud setter (Momma's Christmas present that year).

Uninformed about the hazards of tanning, we baked ourselves a toasty brown with the careful application of Crisco and the use of strategically placed tin foil.  A dinner of hush puppies and fried shrimp was the order of business our last night at the beach, followed by a visit to one of the gift shops that dotted the sprawling strip malls. We clutched our shell-bedecked picture frames and beach globes (with shaken-up sandscapes) to our small chests as we piled back into the car for the five-hour trek back up the winding two-lane highway that was the 'Boiled Peanut Route' back to Alabama.

So, my own child heads off to camp with air-conditioned cabins decked out in Scalamandre silk fabrics after the obligatory trip to Disney World and then has a boring week of nothing before spending a month at the Half Moon Club in Jamaica for swimming with dolphins, horse-back riding, five-star dinners and Hobie Cat sails. Poor child! We had all the fun!