Memoir I

The summer of 1973 in Detroit was just like any other. It was summer. It was warm. Gigantic Dutch elms with great intertwining branches and millions of leaves formed tunnels over streets, streets made into playgrounds by millions of kids, the fallout from the baby-boom generation. There wasn't a neighborhood in Detroit's East side that wasn't filled with kids. If there was a theme to the streets of Detroit in the early 70's, it would be “kids.” In the mornings millions of kids would walk to school; millions would walk home from school. On the weekends kids would be playing football, baseball, hockey -- anywhere they thought would work, if not on the street, then on a business parking lot, or behind a bank after hours or a doctor's office. Some kids were so hot to play baseball that I remember seeing them mow their own diamond in an overgrown vacant field. That Detroit seemed like it was a kid's town. All I know is there was never a dull moment those days. And if, for some odd reason there weren't any kids around, the next best thing was hanging with family. And in our neighborhoods there were lots of those too.

Like all other summers before, the summer of 1973 was good. For my family it was the summer of corn. For some reason my dad got his kicks from driving out to the country and hitting up as many roadside fruit and vegetable stands as possible. It became his mission to find the best sweet corn around. So, once or twice a week he and my mother would leave us kids for the day and take our 1964 Chevy Nomad wagon on a corn mission. They'd return with a wagon load of sweet golden booty. Let me tell you, we had enough corn to feed all the kids in our neighborhood. And that's just what we did that day. My dad had all my brothers and sisters and I invite our friends over for a corn roast. First thing I did was hop on my Schwinn Stingray and ride to all my buddies' houses. First stop: Lips' house.